


One Father's Sons

by stele3



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Post-S1, Third Winchester brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 109,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for season two. After the car crash, Sam and Dean struggle to deal with their father's death, and make a startling discovery: they have a younger brother, Reese, who's got his own demonic issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There Is A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://s211.beta.photobucket.com/user/stele3/media/OFSBanner_zps23c8f810.jpg.html)   
> 

  
_'06_

It took four times.

When Dean's eyes opened the fourth time, Sam saw it happen. Saw realization sink in without any spoken words (between the breathing tube and Sam's unwillingness to disturb the shards of his brother's body with even the faintest whisper). So it all happened underneath the ordered disruption of monitors, in the silences between beeps and hisses and the blink of Dean's bruised lids.

He looked up at Sam who sat beside him, then past him to where their father did not. Sam closed his hands into fists in the sheets and made himself watch: there would be no running away after this, no Stanford, and he was only a little surprised to realize how little that mattered to him right now. His dream had been a dotted line, beyond which lay an endless country. Dean's dream had been family, trinity, a triangle enclosed.

Dean _broke_ in absolute silence, his powerful, deadly body lying still. There was nothing to mark the occurrence but a flutter of eyelashes.

To Sam that seemed more wrong than the empty air at his side. Because this was only the beginning, just a step. If Dean broke now, when he thought their father was lying dead in a freezer somewhere, what would he do when he learned that the truth was so, so much worse?

Sam made himself watch his brother's dream die and knew that he would gladly trade his own to open Dean's eyes a fifth time. His own grief burned in a hard line between his throat and gut, and he heard his father's voice saying _Use it. Make your weaknesses into strengths._

He meant to transform grief into rage. Sam had smoked through anger already and felt all of it vanish in the space between his brother's heartbeats. 

-o-

When Bobby came to the hospital he brought half his arsenal with him; God knows how he got in, but that was Bobby for you. Sam met him in the hallway, didn't want Dean to have to face anyone else just yet. After they exchanged murmured Latin, Bobby relaxed and jerked his chin at the cast, the stitches. "You good?"

"You should see the other guy," Sam said, trying to make his tone light. He'd never had Dean's gift for levity in the storm, though, and the words came out sounding like a threat. Bobby eyed him and Sam shrugged. "Colt's gone, Bobby. Used the last bullet on the possessed trucker. We're kinda fucked."

He'd drawn Devil's Traps on the doors, the windows, on the base of Dean's right hand. The nurse had brought Dean's pendant back, the cord broken where they'd cut it off him. Sam didn't dare disturb his older brother to slip it around his neck, so he hung it on the bed's railing. These were straw houses against the Big Bad somewhere out there.

Bobby, thankfully, hadn't ever been the talkative type. He peered into the room, at Dean's pale face and closed eyes, and nodded once. "You boys gonna want to move soon?"

Sam took a breath. They both knew that depended entirely on Dean. "I'll call you. Just keep watch around the hospital, let me know if anything comes our way."

Bobby nodded again, turned. Then he stopped short in such a way, such a complete absence of movement, that Sam stilled his own body instinctively.

Bobby turned back, eyes guarded."I know a place you can go," he said slowly, unwillingly.

Sam waited. Bobby frowned, shifted the weight of the gun held below his jacket, fiddled with his pocket. "There was this church, in Minnesota," he said finally. "Your daddy told me about it the last time he came to visit. He said that if… anything happened to him, and I got a chance, I should send you there."

There was a world behind every word, but Bobby had only described the continents. Sam knew he could get it out if he tried: Bobby had never been a good liar, but the door to Dean's room stood partially open and Sam had little room or time for anything else.

For once, he did not question his father. Oh, the irony. "Where?"

************************  
  
 _'05_

Pre-dawn light sketched the church in charcoal-gray smudges; its steeple leaned against the night sky above, a space of emptiness between the stars. John drifted the truck to a stop beside the dirt path up to the door. 

Beside him, his son clutched an overstuffed duffel bag. He hadn't spoken since they'd left St. Paul, but got out of the cab and trudged up the path in the very picture of silent obedience. Glancing back, John couldn't see any more of his face than an indistinct oval of white with dark blotches for eyes.

They stood in the church's entryway and John flicked on his flashlight. His boy squinted in sudden light and the expression in his narrowed, glassy eyes made John's gut tighten. "You okay?" John asked gruffly.

The kid blinked down at him. At least 6'2" and probably still growing. _Definitely a Winchester_ and the thought made John just a little bit sick. Something must have shown in his face, 'cause the boy's eyes opened up and that made it so much more unbearable. 

John never hid from hard things. Not pain, not blood, even when it was on his own hands. He knew every scar on Sam and Dean's backs, a tally weighed against his soul.

He turned away from the eyes of his youngest son and walked deeper into the deserted church.

It was Jim's property, had been a safe house for hunters. Besides some old furniture and the church pews, the building stood empty in the cold Minnesota air. Somewhere away to the Northeast lay the Great Lakes. Jim lived 150 miles due South.

John looked at the crumbling altar, the holes in the roof. It'd be hell in winter, but he couldn't think of anywhere else.

The living quarters in back were a little more promising. There was small bedroom with a single window that looked to the West, with a tiny bathroom off to one side. The faucet water looked a little suspect, the shower rattled and groaned, but both worked. No electricity, but it was an easy call to hook the gas back on in the stove.

His heart rose in the kitchen, with its wooden cabinets and ice box. Even among the dirt and cracked windows, it had a cozy feel… echoes of clinking plates and church ladies preparing snacks for the congregation.

 

************************

_'06_

Sam could predict the first words out of Dean's mouth down to the syllable. "You okay?" Dean asks, low and scratchy.

Sam had puzzled through this part and decided that selective honesty was the best available option. "I'm not hurt bad. How d'you feel?"

Dean had cuts across his torso that the doctor described with a confused shake of the head, and one big scar where they'd gone in and put his insides back together. They'd done their part to stop the bleeding, so now it's Sam's turn. He gritted his teeth and asked, "Can you sit up?"

Dean chuckled hoarsely. "That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say that we don't have time to flirt with the nurses," Sam replied lightly.

It took some help to get Dean semi-vertical and when Sam stepped forward to put a hand on his brother's back, he felt the knobs of Dean's spine move, skin stretching and twitching. His torn ab muscles must hurt like hell, but he got to a sitting position and hung there, head drooping.

Dean said in a muffled voice, "I wanna see Dad."

Sam's stomach clenched and his throat burned. "You will," and the promise echoed.

They moved as fast as they dared, pushing Dean's stitches until a night nurse threatened to report their unapproved walks through the halls, Dean clinging to his IV and Sam at his side. By the end of the week they were both strung out, exhausted, and Sam curled up in a chair next to Dean's bed to stare at the ceiling. 

Dean had caught on to his anxiety right from the start. Sam knew that if he asked, Dean would start doing situps until he bled out, which left Sam to balance concern from his brother's injuries against the growing fear in his mind, the unshakeable idea that they had to get out of here _now_.

The clincher came three days later, when the day nurse did a double-take at the bag she had just hooked up to Dean's IV and murmured, "That's funny…"

Sam lunged straight across the bed, body doing some acrobatics to avoid landing on his brother, and pinched his fingers on the clear tube. Below him, Dean moved just as fast, then made a high noise of agony. When Sam looked down, his brother's eyes were squeezed tight. Sam grabbed at his shoulder, voice stuttering, then saw the blood splattered on the sheet. Dean had ripped out his IV.

The nurse stared, mouth frightened. Sam clambered across Dean's bed, knees placed cautiously, then yanked the IV bag off the rack. It rolled in his hands, hard to hang onto, but when he held it up to the light Sam could see the faint swirl of discolored liquid inside, like oil in water.

He spun on the nurse. "Christo."

"What?"

He waved the IV bag at her. It flopped around limply. "Who made this?! Who sent this in here?"

"D-Dr. Kirchhoffer." She backed up against the far wall.

"Get out," Sam snapped and she did. When he turned back to the bed Dean was already sitting up, clenching the back of his hand.

"Guess that's our cue."

They went out the back door, Dean breathing hard and Sam on the phone. "Bobby. Yeah. We gotta go, _now_."

When he hung up he said, "There's some church in Minnesota. Bobby knows where… we'll head that way."

Dean gritted his teeth as they staggered down stairs. "Why there?"

"No idea. Dad told Bobby to send us there if – something happened."

Which was more than good enough for Dean.

************************

_'05_

_It won't be for long_ , John repeated to himself. He'd been in Jericho when Jim had called. "It's back, John," the pastor had said, weight of the world on every syllable. "Got a call from a friend of mine in St. Paul. A woman's dead, and her kids are giving funny reports to the police." 

Jim did not speak the words lightly. He knew what kind of human monster they would arouse: John had torn across the country, foot glued to the pedal and half his life left behind in the dust.

Then he'd run headlong into a pair of blue eyes and screeched to a halt.

John stood beside the crooked dining table in the church rectory's kitchen and rubbed a hand over his face. He'd have to go back now, get his gear. Do this proper. No room for mistakes or distractions. He'd been waiting for the damned thing to come out of hiding for twenty-two goddamned years, he couldn't afford… this. None of them could.

The boys couldn't be part of it, no way, no how. Too many ways, given their bumpy history, for them to be used against one another. Sam would stay in his little bubble at Stanford, oblivious by choice. Dean, John wasn't worried about. He was a tough kid, never seemed to need anything more than a shotgun and something to point it at. John would give him that… yeah, he'd leave the journal. Pass it on. Dean could pick up the pieces on his own.

Which left the kid.

The sun had come up when John came back out of the rectory. Only one stained glass window remained intact and light poured through it, casting dull colors over a small patch of the church's floor. His youngest son stood in that patch of light, eyes closed and head tilted back. 

John's heart stuttered and dropped again. Underneath the false rainbow of refracted illumination, grief painted the boy's eyes bluish and bruised. His jeans had black streaks across the knees, and one sleeve of his soot-stained hoodie had been pulled up to reveal a bandage on his forearm where the fire had touched him.

It took John a moment – _Richard, Robert, Ryan, Jesus he's your goddamned_ son – and then he called quietly, "Reese."

The kid twitched and opened his eyes. Bright, cornflower blue ringed impressively with black. Something he shared with his mother, the only reason John had remembered her all these years later. He'd flashed false authority in the fire station and found her three children seated in a clump, arms tight around each other in a way that made John's fingers cold. Six blue eyes stared back at him, but then they'd all stood up and the middle child had stood up and _up_ , half a foot above his siblings.

John looked at the kid's wide hands and straight nose and saw every stupid thing he'd ever done, laid out in flesh.

The kid had seen it too, smoke-and-tear-red eyes inching back to life as they stared at John's face. He'd wordlessly peeled a picture out of his wallet, some keepsake from his mother. John couldn't remember when she'd snapped it, in the two weeks he'd known her. Sam had been four, Dean seven. The lingering smoke of their old life had still hung heavy around John's ears and he'd left the boys with Pastor Jim to chase rumors of a selkie in this lake-freckled country. Some hard knocks left him in the local hospital, where the nurse had had the bluest damn eyes he'd ever seen. 

It lasted two weeks, the first since Mary, and in the haze of parting smoke he obviously hadn't been as careful as he should have. 

And now his mistake had ash in his light brown hair. A Winchester family baptism. 

The kid – _Reese_ – shivered again and stared, half his face colored green by the stained glass above. John wondered what his mother – _Kelly? Carol?_ – had told him about his dad. He could barely remember the woman's face, how could he tell this kid that he'd treated her well, let alone loved her?

Instead he cleared his throat and said, "There's a cot in the back."


	2. In Which Dean and Sam Try to Escape; Reese Gets Comfy, or Not

_'06_

They had an address, some sketchy directions, and John's truck after Bobby tracked it down. Bobby handed over a few things he'd managed to yank out of the Impala (including Dad's journal); Sam helped Dean into the high cab, waited patiently while his brother got belted in and situated, then floored it.

Bobby wouldn't be there after that night: he was going dark, slipping away down south to stay with friends of his. Dean stared at his shrinking form in the mirror and felt like the world was disappearing out from under them.

Sam didn't drive far, clearly believing that Dean had had enough excitement and jostling for the day. It set Dean's teeth on edge and he had to stop himself from protesting when they pulled over at a motel in Mount Pleasant, just across the Iowa border. It wasn't much more than the intersection of several minor highways, with one twisting railroad through its center that ferried train cars from coast to another. All the motels stood on the edges of town, keeping the drifters and travelers away from the core community.

Dean stood on the edge of the highway, toe just over the white line, and looked out to the horizon in gathering darkness. 

He'd lived in so many places, deserts, cities, prairies, forests, mountains. They'd even stayed by the beach in Maine for a couple months when Sam was in sixth grade and contracted mononucleosis. They'd been passing through when its symptoms finally caught up to them, and Sam had been so enamored of the ocean that they stayed there while he recovered. 

He would sit by the back door, face pressed against the glass and eyes drooping. Dean put his back to the door and talked, and Sam leaned into him, listening to jokes and stories and songs while his inflamed tonsils kept him from replying. Dad would come home from whatever temporary job he'd found to find them framed against the rolling sea, Sam asleep on his big brother's shoulder. Moments like that, with Sam drooling down his arm, John caught Dean's eyes and smiled, weary appreciation lightening his usually down-turned face.

Still, that house by the beach had never felt like home. Maybe it was a bit of Kansas dirt in his blood, but Dean had always loved a place where the ground lay flat under his gaze and the horizon stretched in a ring around him. Like he could go forever in any direction.

Sam came up behind him. "Dean. We should get inside."

"Where's the Impala?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"I don't know. I – I think it's in an impound somewhere." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"Where's Dad? Did we leave him behind, too?" It came out harsher than he meant and Dean winced, but did not turn around.

The silence stretched out long, too long. "Let's get inside, Dean. We can talk about it in the morning," and that was only the beginning of the truth.

Sam's voice was raw, turned inside-out and it sounded so damn _wrong_ that Dean finally did turn around and reach out, catching Sam's good arm as he tried to turn away. His little brother's face was set and pale, trying to hold together. It shouldn't look like that (not Sammy) but it did and Dean awkwardly wrapped his arms around Sam's middle, pulled him into a hug full of elbows and surprised flinches.

He hadn't hugged Sam in years and damn if his little brother hadn't gotten too long and gangly to get a good grip on. His shoulder bumped into Sam's sternum, he had no idea what to do with his hands so he made them into fists. It felt ridiculous and stupid and Sam was rigid, shoulders pulled up and not taking comfort from it at all. 

Dean pulled back almost instantly, embarrassed; it'd seemed easier to do on TV. He dredged up a coughing chuckle from somewhere. "Sorry, they got me pretty doped up… guess painkillers turn me into a chick."

Sam coughed too, and glanced out over the road at the pasture on the other side. The stitches around his eye made his face look lopsided and his gaze was blank, exhausted and lost.

Dean swallowed. "Let's get inside, dude. I'm beat."

"Yeah," Sam replied distantly, like that hadn't been his idea from the beginning. "Yeah, okay."

************************

_'05_

"It won't be for long," said the man that Reese supposed was his father. John, John Winchester, like the rifle. He looked like his name, broad and straight with a metallic set to his features. Stone, maybe. Reese blinked and tried to focus on what this stone-made man was telling him about demons and churches. 

"I'm going after it," and "you're always safe inside the actual sanctuary." Safe was good. The church was so cold, but safe was worth it.

John's voice paused and it occurred to Reese that he was expected to do something. So he nodded a few times, head jerking. Apparently he didn't get the gesture quite right, because John heaved a sigh. He'd done that a lot on the drive: sighing and looking at Reese like he was a mountain of paperwork or a troublesome car. Reese didn't mind that look so much, it was better than the one of sheer, stark horror that had come over John's face when he'd first recognized Reese as his son.

He'd always wondered about his father, if he was kind or irritable or a drunk. Apparently, John had never done the reverse.

John seemed to prefer silence, so Reese didn't talk. He'd only spoken once, in the street outside his Aunt Sylvia's house. They'd loaded up a couple of duffel bags, clothes and other necessities, along with Reese's guitar, which John raised disapproving eyebrows at. Tim and Gina stood in the open door, staring after him with their arms wrapped around each other. They looked like paper dolls, hands linked but torn where Mom should have been… and now him, too. Reese shut the door of the pickup and asked, "Was it because of me?"

John paused in his brusque motions. Reese did not look at him, but kept his eyes on his brother and sister, forestalling the moment of separation. There was an edge of finality to this that cut under his skin and burned like a fever. 

"It's because you're my son," John had answered after a moment, voice gruff. It was the only time either one of them said it out loud.

-o-

John spent approximately four hours at the church with him, long enough to deposit some food, bedding, and money. He lined all the rectory's entryways with salt. That was Important, the salt. 

"Hey – you with me?" he said and Reese realized that John had been talking to him for a while. "Demons can't get inside the sanctuary, but they _can_ enter the rectory if you're not careful. You want me to write all this down?" He looked at Reese's eyes and softened a bit, took a step closer to where Reese sat on the bed. That still left him only one step away from the other side of the room. "Look," he said in a gentler tone, which meant that it sounded like limestone instead of granite, "I know this is hard. Believe me, I know, but this is your life we're talking about here. This thing… it's got no mercy. It can't be bargained with; if you make one mistake, that's it. So, no screwups."

That seemed like another good place to nod. Reese did so and for once John seemed satisfied.

He left in a big damn hurry, was still giving instructions about the name of God and cell phones (Reese wanted to say that he didn't have one but John talked so fast) as he strode down the path. He did pause by the truck's open door, though. "I'll be back soon," he said, and Reese believed that. It sounded solid, somehow. He nodded with real conviction this time.

For the barest moment John Rifle – no, wait, _Winchester_ – looked at him and left a moment of such weariness and wandering anger. Then John got into the cab and shut the door, pulled away.

Reese stood beside the road and listened to the wind.

-o-

He spent the next four days swimming in that same vagueness. The church's solitude helped, no responses expected or conversations to follow.

There had been some kind of a flood here. Reese ran his fingers over the brown line as he walked the walls, tapping. There were markings here and there, some that he recognized as Christian and others that weren't. They looked like religious graffiti, scrawled into the walls, floors, and over every doorway. He found a stack of watermarked Bibles under a pew, most of the pages stuck together or unreadable. Hornets had built a nest underneath the altar, and he had to take shelter in the rectory after he bumped their nest on accident. That night he went back and burned it with his lighter. Their home of mud and spit went up in smoke and Reese felt something strange in his chest, twisting around.

The next morning, the fifth day, he woke up to sheer blind panic. He ran through the church, sprinted over the salt lines, panting and not at all clear on where he was.

The sight of empty Minnesota earth felt like a slap to his brain. He stood in the church's doorway shuddering with the force of his own breath and wondering who had taken the world away. After a while he heard a strangled voice saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and realized that it was _him_ sobbing those words to the flat horizon. 

He wasn't sure if he meant the apology for his mother, his brother and sister, or the man who didn't want to be his father.

************************

_'06_

Dean slept like the dead, so completely _out_ that Sam checked his vitals twice. He spent the rest of the night in the bathroom with the door almost closed dialing anyone who he thought might help.

There were fewer than he hoped. The demon had hit more than just Caleb and Pastor Jim. And many that did answer the phone seemed reluctant to help. Adrian the gun dealer in Tulsa told him outright that they were marked men, and anyone who associated with them was either crazy or suicidal.

Sam told him to go fuck himself and hung up.

-o-

By dawn Dean had a balls-out fever. He lay hot and shivering, moaning in his sleep. Sam moved the trashcan close and ripped the comforter off his own bed, laid it atop Dean's. He thought about internal infections and poisoned IVs and sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed and hands clasped between his knees.

Dean woke up around nine to puke, staggered to the bathroom with Sam's help to pee. In the bathroom mirror his glassy eyes looked at Sam. "We've gotta go back. We've gotta go back for Dad."

Sam sucked in a breath, guided his brother back to the sweat-stained sheets. "Easy, dude."

Dean had never done things easy and even in his fevered state he made no exceptions. As Sam pushed him down, he gripped one wrist hard until bones ground together. "We gotta go back for Dad," he cried, voice thin and desperate. "We gotta go back for him."

One of his hands was trapped, but Sam hooked the other one behind Dean's neck, held him in place. "Dad's gone, Dean," he murmured and Dean jerked, eyes wide and mouth panting.

"No he's not. No. He's not, he can't be."

"Dean… man, hold still, you're gonna tear out your stitches…"

"He's not dead! He can't be, he can't, you're lying, I know it!"

"Dean!" Sam screamed, struggling to control Dean's flailing limbs without hurting him further. "Dean, don't, godammit, calm down, _please_! Please, Dean. Look at me. You know me, I'm Sam." That seemed to break through the fever panic. Dean stilled his weak thrashing and blinked at Sam uncertainly through sweat. "This is me, Dean. I'm still here. I'm right here. Just _please_ … if you move like that you're gonna tear out your stitches. Just… lie still."

Dean still breathed harshly in his throat but obeyed, slumping down to lay his head on the mattress. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's okay. You gotta get better, okay?" He swallowed hard, moved one hand over Dean's face, touched his burning forehead. "It's just you and me, man. Please… you gotta get better."

"He's really gone?"

The words shattered in the air, so frail and frightened.

"Yeah, Dean. He's really gone."

Dean made no sound after that, just shivered. After a while Sam stretched out beside him, shoulder to shoulder and staring upward at the ceiling.

Day passed into night and when Dean woke up again he asked quietly, "Jesus Sam, what're we gonna do?"

Sam swallowed. "Let's just get to this church in Minnesota first. Dad wanted us to go there, Bobby said that it'd be safe. Then we'll figure out the rest, okay?"

Dean made no reply.

************************

_'05_

Reese had always been a city boy. In the absence of air conditioning or traffic, the church's silence roared in his ears.

After that morning of panic, he went back to bed and stayed there for two days, only getting up to piss in the stained toilet. He went fast through the food John had left him, with help from the church's rats; they scampered through the walls at night and gave Reese a heart attack. He'd never been a light sleeper before, but now every creak and tap brought him up, clutching the sleeping bag and straining with his whole body to hear.

On the morning of the eighth day he woke up to something more than rats. A big hand closed over his shoulder and shook roughly. Reese kicked out blind, flailing and shouting. His legs got tangled up in the sleeping bag and he coughed a sob of fright, lunging backward to put his shoulders against the wall. His skull connected with a crack and he blinked through stars and half-sleep.

John Winchester stood beside his cot, hands at his sides and his stone gaze steady. "You fucked up the salt lines. I could have been a demon and walked right in here. You have to keep the salt lines straight."

Reese didn't have the breath to answer. John grunted and dropped a McDonald's bag on the bed, walked out of the small bedroom.

He sat in the kitchen when Reese finally stumbled out, chewing on a Big Mac. There was a new table and a couple of chairs, some cheap kinds from Ikea. Looking at them, Reese understood that he was going to be here for a while.

John glanced over at him, then back at the kitchen. There were crumbs and bits of food everywhere, courtesy of the rats, and Reese suddenly wished that he'd cleaned up after them. It hadn't seemed important before, nothing had, but something in this man's gaze made it so much dirtier.

His father sat back and folded his arms. "Need to teach you a few things."

-o-

He stayed a week this time, and Reese learned all about demons: how to recognize them, how to repel them. The church would help, but he had to learn some Latin. He'd never been good at languages, had barely squeaked through Spanish 1 with a C, and he stumbled over the thick words. John watched with arms still strapped across his wide chest, making him repeat and repeat the words until Reese went hoarse.

"This is your life," John kept saying. "This is your life we're talking about." And after a while, Reese understood what his father meant: that this _was_ his life now, not the blackened house in St. Paul, not Tim and Gina, not school or the wrestling team or anything else from _before_.

When he understood that, he sat down in the cheap Ikea chair and put his head in his hands. John came back from the store and found him that way. "Hey – up. C'mon, crying won't make it better. There's work to be done. None of us are gonna be safe until this thing is finished. C'mon, geddup."

Later, though, John sat with him by the rectory's back door while the sun went down and told him the story of another blue-eyed woman who'd burned. How the night had gotten longer and fuller with darkness. How he'd raised his two boys, his other two boys (not Reese), to be lighthouses. Instead of crying he took swigs from the bottle in his hands, trading tears for whiskey.

Watching him, Reese realized that his father was everything he'd wondered: kind, irritable, a drunk, all of it. So much more and so much less.

John drove away again at the end of the week, leaving admonishments about salt lines and a thick wad of cash. He did not say when he would be back.

-o-

John had done some quick repairs, replacing windows and adjusting the plumbing. Most crucial, though, was that table in the kitchen, the signifier of a long stay here. Reese had always been unusually orderly for a boy, cleaner than even Gina. Mom had always…

Those thought never seemed to finish themselves, just trailed away into the same mental potholes.

He was orderly by nature, but never restive. Had to have something to do, and in the absence of summer camp or… anything else, he set about cleaning. A closet off the kitchen produced a broom with half the handle missing: he had to bend over to use it and after the first day his back felt like one huge knot but at least the floors of the rectory looked less filthy. John had reluctantly bought some basic cleaning supplies at Reese's request. Armed with Fantastic and paper towels, he began in the kitchen and worked his way from one side of the room to the other, laying rat poison as he went.

The poison worked, unfortunately. Reese spent the next few days trying to erase the smell of rotting flesh, and sobbing.


	3. In Which Dean Learns the Truth and Reese Gets to Know His Dad

They lost two days to Dean's illness and hit the road hard to make up for it. He still felt woozy on his feet and had to puke on the roadside a couple times, but no blood came up with his bile and his fever broke fine. That ruled out internal bleeding; maybe he'd just gotten a drop of whatever had been in the IV bag. "Shittiest HMO I've ever been in," he cracked lamely to Sam, who twitched a faint smile.

Sam let him drive a couple times, though more out of exhaustion than confidence in his brother's health. The same flat country stretched out before the truck's tires and Dean drove for a hundred miles or more, staring at the endless road. He rolled the windows down and let the wind tear through the truck, ruffling Sam's hair on his sleeping brow.

Dean's mind felt deadened, blank. He should be thinking about what they were going to do, coming up with a plan of attack. Instead he counted mile markers like a measurement against the unknown future.

There was no contingency plan for this. He knew what to do in cases of lycanthropy, vampire bites, possession: all very real possibilities, part of the job. John had sat him down at age 16 and solemnly explained that if it came to it, they all had to be willing to put each other down. Dean had nodded gravely and understood every word. They were family. They would kill each other if they had to, no question: families did that for each other. It wasn't until years later that Dean started to question the healthiness of that conviction. But he'd still upheld his father's commandments, because he couldn't come up with a better plan on his own.

Death in a car accident, though, was not in his father's journal, nor in any of his teachings. Hell, death in general had never been discussed. How to get there, yes, and what to do in dark, necessary times; but what to do _afterward_ … how the survivors, the triggermen, would carry on… that had never been laid out on the table.

Not by John, because he did not expect to live. Not by Sam, who did not expect to die. And not by Dean, who could not imagine it, could not even hypothesize surviving the other two.

-o-

By dark they'd made it into Minnesota and another low-rent motel. Sam awoke and unfolded from the passenger seat. "How d'ya feel?"

"Starving. I could eat tuna fish."

Sam barked a surprised little laugh. It was an old joke with them, going back to the time Dean had ordered a tuna fish sandwich, bit into it, and promptly spewed its contents all over their highly-unamused father. "It was _crunchy_ ," he'd wailed afterwards as John had dragged him, stony face covered in tuna, from the restaurant.

Dean grimaced at the memory, shook his head. "Okay, maybe not tuna fish. A cheeseburger sounds good."

They must have looked extra-pathetic, because the waitress practically fell all over herself with the mothering. Sam spun a tale of a vicious mugging and pretty soon they had themselves a pair of double cheeseburgers on the house. Dean wanted to feel guilty for taking charity, but his stomach had different ideas and hunger won out in the end.

They ate in silence, Sam spending most of the meal staring off into space and chewing. A deep line drew itself between his troubled eyes and part of Dean really did _not_ want to know. There was just the two of them now, though – God, _Dad_ – and he had to ask. "What're you thinking about?"

Sam gave a start and there was a flash of guilt in the glance he threw at Dean. "Nothing. Well, no, actually, I called some people last night. It looks like we're on our own here, Dean. Missouri said she'd help, but after Pastor Jim and Caleb, we kinda became the black sheep of the hunting community. Adrian told me point blank that there was no way he was gonna risk his neck for us."

Dean scowled. "That piece of shit! We saved his ass half a dozen times! I almost got my eye yanked out when we helped him fight those fucking pixies."

Sam chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, well. Apparently people are a lot more impressed by a horde of bloodthirsty demons than pixies."

They lapsed into grim silence. Dean cast a glance around the diner, wondering belatedly if any of their fellow patrons or even their waitress had a little demon inside them.

"We should get going," he muttered, tossing down his napkin and scooting out. "You go ahead and pay, I gotta pee."

Sam nodded and got his wallet out as Dean rose and turned toward the bathroom.

Two booths down, another man got up simultaneously and turned to face Dean.

Dean stopped cold in his tracks, feeling his entire body turn to stone. Behind him, there was a crash and scuffle and then Sam was at his back, clutching Dean's shoulder.

"Hello, boys," their father said, and smiled.

************************

_'05_

Icy rain and corn snow created a few minor drips in the bathroom and kitchen. The main church was another matter: it leaked like a sieve and puddles scattered across the floor. Reese sat in the first row of pews, listening to the rain hit the roof above and thinking about how hard it would be to burn this place down.

The water made it easier to clean, at least, and he finished scrubbing out the bedroom and bathroom. There were still cracks and stains, but his fingers when he trailed them on the walls came away somewhat clean.

He tried playing a little guitar, as much to keep his hands warm as any desire to play, but no matter how much he tuned, the chords all sounded flat and empty.

He stretched the food supply as long as he could, not ready yet to go someplace with actual _people_. When desperation to do something other than clean took him, he ventured beyond the salt lines to jog along gravel roads that led away to rural houses. He avoided those and ducked into bushes at the rumble of engines.

"Demons need a human host," John had said, and Reese shivered.

-o-

The food ran out after two weeks. Reese spent the night pacing back and forth, sweating and repeating Latin to himself. "De-us, de-i," he said to the patch of star-filled sky that shown through the roof. His breath made puffs in the cold air; it would snow soon. "Chris-tus, Chris-ti."

He'd never been good at languages.

-o-

He went into the small town of Alberta, Minnesota, on an early Saturday morning. There wasn't much to it: just a grocer's, a library, a two-room schoolhouse for grades K-12, and one gas station. Hardly a soul among its 150 inhabitants was out and about but his nerve still almost failed him. For an endless, paralyzed moment he crouched on the sidewalk across the street, sheltered behind the corner of the hardware store. "Demons need a human host," and Reese's breath made fast clouds in the cold air, hands clenching and unclenching as fear warred with hunger. The world loomed around his exposed body, might assault him at any moment.

There were about thirty feet between him and the door of the grocery store. "Okay," Reese muttered to himself. "Okay, you little shit. You can do this." Thirty feet, then a glass door, up and down the aisles… Jesus, he'd need to carry out the bags and that would slow him down. Were these things… these demons _looking_ for him? God, maybe they were already here. Reese imagined a store clerk, raising blackened eyes to smile and smile while the whole place went up in flames and he put his face against the side of the building. He prayed for John to come back and rescue him, for Mom to touch his cheek and tell him it would be okay.

No one came. After a while, Reese straightened and licked his lips. "Deus," he whispered. "Dei."

The girl behind the counter was probably in his grade. She stared at him, alarm breaking through her sleepiness. Reese wanted to joke or do something else to reassure her that this unshaven, dirty, shabbily-dressed boy wasn't crazy; but his mouth was too busy mumbling Latin.

Getting the bags home was hell and it was almost night by the time he staggered back through the church's door. He had food for another month, though, one more month that he wouldn't see another human being.

-o-

It wasn't a month. Three days later, Reese woke up to the roar of an engine turning off. He practically shot out of bed, sprinting into the rectory in his sweats and long-sleeved T-shirt.

John walked up the aisle between the pews, lugging several large sacks that he held aloft. "Brought you some supplies," he said as a greeting.

Reese blinked. "I went out and got some last Saturday."

John stopped in his tracks and gave him a narrow-eyed glare. "You left the _church_?"

"I didn't know if you were coming back! I mean," he shrugged and struggled, "I barely – _know_ you. I thought maybe… maybe you'd leave me here."

John bent and laid the bags on the floor, then stepped past them and met Reese's eyes with a gaze of solid stone. "I would never just leave you here."

Reese looked away and swallowed, nodding. "I remembered the Latin. Kept saying it to everyone I met." He laughed shakily, rubbed a hand through his too-long hair. "Think they thought I was crazy."

His father snorted faintly. "Let them think what they want. None of 'em know what's really out there." He turned back to the groceries.

"Did you find it yet?" Reese blurted, because he hadn't had much else to think about.

"No. But I'm getting damn close." He paused, studying Reese, then seemed to come to some decision. Bone-deep weariness shone in his eyes as he explained, "It killed another woman. My son's girlfriend, in California, less than a week after it took your mom. That was right before I came to see you last time. So, ah, I mighta been a little short with you then." He redirected his gaze on the bags, sorting through them.

Reese watched him and understood the apology; maybe he was better at languages than he thought. "Is he – is your son okay?"

"Best as can be expected," John replied gruffly. "He's with his brother. Help me with these."

To Reese's surprise, John made dinner. "Raised two boys on my own. Not the best cook, or the best father, but I get by. Pass me the tomato sauce."

Reese sat by the table, one knee drawn up and an arm slung over the top. John had given him a beer and he sipped at it despite the bitter taste; it made him feel grown up, like two men in a kitchen, just visiting. Mom had been pretty strict about drinking alcohol. "Do you… know how Gina and Tim are doing?"

John chopped carrots. "Jim mentioned that he'd been in contact with them. They're alright."

Reese picked at the beer's label. "Safer without me," he said softly.

The _chop-chop_ of the knife paused. "Yes," John said evenly. "For now." His eyes were steady when Reese looked up. "You'll have a family again, Reese. I promise."

John turned and dumped the chopped carrots into the pot, stirred it. "You'll meet your brothers sometime," he said presently. "Not now, it's too dangerous. I haven't seen them myself in a while." He paused and leaned over the pot, shaking his head. "They're safer without me, too. Couldn't hole them up in a church… they'd wanna be part of it. It's what I trained them for."

Reese watched his father's hand stir the pot, noted the wedding ring there. "I guess we're both holding out hope for families, then."

John stirred for a while in silence, then commented approvingly, "You're talking a lot more."

The pot roast was delicious.

-o-

John left Reese with a promise. "I'll come back. I don't know when, but I will. Don't go into town unless you have to. Keep the salt lines unbroken. If anyone _but_ me comes, do _not_ let them see you if you can avoid it."

He turned and walked away. That was the last time Reese saw his father alive, but it was not the last time Reese _saw_ his father.

********

_'06_

Sam had a hold on Dean's shirt, yanking him backward and shouting. " _Exorcizo te, ominus spirito immunde…_ "

"Relax, boys," John drawled easily, leaning against the table of his booth. "Not here to finish you off, just dropping by to say hello." He cocked his head, such a familiar gesture. "You're both lookin' a little worse for wear, I gotta say. You been eating your greens?"

Dean pulled in a breath, like his lungs had forgotten to move and needed a reminder. John tilted his head forward to look over the top of a pair of sunglasses, and yellow eyes met Dean's. "Hello, Dean," his father said softly. "Kinda surprised to see you among the living."

"Dean," Sam hissed. "That's not him. It's not…"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," their father intoned with booming relish, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "You two might want to tone down the hysteria, we're getting a bit of attention. Now, why don't we all sit down and have a nice quiet family meal before I torch everyone in this place?"

Their waitress had come back, hovering at the edge of vision. John moved back around his table and sat down, watching them expectantly; when they didn't move, the quirky smile curling his mouth dropped a hairsbreadth. "If I wanted to, I could eviscerate you both where you stand. Now sit your butts down and talk to your daddy. Otherwise I'll make that nice waitress over there die screaming."

Sam moved first, inching his way forward and sliding into the booth, careful to pull in his legs. Dean came slower, not taking his eyes off his father's face.

"Now," John crowed lightly when they were seated, "that's better, isn't it?"

"What do you want?" Sam gritted out.

"Oh, just a bit of polite conversation, Sammy. Can't we ever have a little family get-together without winding up at each other's throats?"

"No."

John chuckled. "Ah, Sammy. You always thought you were so much better than us …"

" _Don't_."

"Or what?" John asks, cold and vicious for a moment before sliding back into smiling charm. "Y'know, they call the devil the Prince of Lies, but nothing hurts like the truth, huh, Sammy? Admit it: there were nights when you _prayed_ that you were adopted, just so you could leave the two of us behind, forget we'd ever existed. I heard you praying in your cute little cowboy pajamas. That _hurt_ , Sammy." He mock-pouted, a smirk still in place. "Bet you didn't know your daddy heard you. You ever wonder if your big, brainless brother did, too?"

Sam teeth ground together, sending sharp pains up his jaw muscles to the stitches. "You here for something or just to psychoanalyze?"

"Actually, boys, I'm here to call a truce."

"Are you kidding?" Dean choked, startled into speaking.

"Honest truth." John spread his hands, grinned wide. "Won't be permanent, of course. I still owe you," his eyes flashed cold over Dean's pale face, "for my dead babies. And I still got my plans for you, Sammy; but hey, I got your daddy and you boys are out of bullets, so it looks like nobody's coming after me anytime soon. Which suits me fine. You boys aren't my only gig, after all." He sat back, lounging in the booth. "'Sides, I'd hate to kill you off before you got your little surprise."

"What're you talking about?" Sam asked, eyes narrowed hard.

John's grin lit up a notch further. "That church, up north. You got quite a little surprise waiting there, kiddos. Bound to give you a _whole_ new perspective on your daddy."

"Get out of our father," Dean whispered, his voice unsteady.

John stared, then looked at Sam. "You haven't told him yet?" he asked, eyes lighting up. He clapped his hands once, put his head back and laughed. Dean twitched, his whole body clenched.

Sam watched, eyes steady and stomach turning over.

"Sammy!" John laughed gently, shaking his head. "You poor messed up kid. Dean, son," he reached across and clamped an iron hand around Dean's before he could move away, "I'm all that's _left_ of your daddy. I caught him right on the edge of dying, when he'd gone brain dead and there wasn't enough left to fight me. If I go, your daddy would be dead in a heartbeat, kiddo. He'd be a sack of meat for the corpse house. You didn't save him, Dean. The one thing you were livin' for, and you fucked it up right proper."

He chuckled at the look on Dean's face, leaned back and got to his feet. "Well, boys, it's been nice catching up with you. I'll be seeing you again real soon, especially you." He patted Dean's shoulder and Dean flinched away, glaring upward. "Enjoy your dinner now, y'hear?"

Still chuckling, he strolled out of the restaurant, pausing to reassure their nervous waitress. After he left, she glanced over at their table, hands twisting; but then other customers came in and she moved away, pad already sliding out and pen in hand.

"We need to go," Sam said thickly.

Dean didn't answer, just stood up and followed.


	4. In Which Reese Passes the Winter, While Sam and Dean Get More Bad News

  
_'05_

Winter's first snowfall practically buried the church. Eventually, with food supplies dwindling and cold creeping in, necessity overrode fear and Reese fought the seven miles into town.

He'd always been a city boy. He almost froze to death.

-o-

Reese woke to an unfamiliar voice. It sent him scrabbling across the floor, one hand reaching for something to throw or use as a weapon. The other hand groped blindly for his mother's arm, to pull her down and out of the flames.

"I said don't fucking move, dude!" It was too human to be The Thing and too young to be his father. Reese peeled his crusted eyelashes open and stared up at rows of books. A young man with a baseball cap and a parka stood nearby, holding a chair. Past him a dark-haired girl murmured fast and urgent into a phone.

Kurt and Heather did not take kindly to him breaking into their place of work to sleep on the floor and they liked him even less when he woke up and started screaming panicked Latin. They spent fifteen minutes trying to get a cop from Morris to forge his way through the snow before Mrs. Reid, the head librarian, huffed her way through the door. She took one look at Reese, then barked at Heather to hang up and Kurt to put the chair down. 

She had a handmade scarf wrapped around her neck and eyeglasses hung on a chain. Reese yelled some more Latin and her eyebrows went up in such a disapproving way that he found himself apologizing immediately. "M'sorry, I'm not very good at languages. My dad, he was going to speak for me, but then he left the church. The Devil burned my mom."

They stared at him like a trio of open-mouthed fish. Reese laughed at the image and fell flat on his face, knocking over a shelf of Young Adult Fiction.

-o-

Two panicky teenagers calling for help about an intruder couldn't motivate the local law, but one phone call from Mrs. Reid summoned a nurse and a veterinarian. Reese wasn't sure what the veterinarian was doing there: as far as he could remember, he hadn't grown a tail recently. They looked him over and pronounced a moderate case of hypothermia before he conked out again.

He woke up with an odd mixture of musty paper and cooking wafting in his nose. Mrs. Reid stood beside the counter, hands on her hips and eyes on a humming microwave; Reese had the distinct impression that the appliance had not been living up to her expectations. Later he discovered that _stern disapproval_ was merely her default facial expression.

He croaked "Deus" at her. She turned her severe gaze on him and replied, "Gloria in Excelsis Deo. I take it you belong to the Catholic Church?"

Reese blinked. He'd never bothered to ask what denomination his little church was. "I don't know. My father taught me that."

"Was he a man of the Church?"

"I – don't know. I only met him three months ago. He went away again and he hasn't come back." Jesus, had the cold fried his brain?

She regarded him through her glasses for another moment, squinting like maybe her prescription wasn't strong enough. Then she made a small _hm_ noise and as if on cue, the microwave beeped. 

She was a devout Christian in the vein of hardcore creationism, abortion-and-gays-are-the-Devil. She gave him soup and another blanket, and made no mention of the window he'd smashed in, except when Kurt shuffled cautiously in the door to get a garbage bag. Reese fumbled an apology anyway. "You can work it off," she announced, and went about her business.

Reese dragged himself from the makeshift bed long enough to rifle through the kitchenette's cupboards and locate a container of table salt. The pleasantly plump Heather watched him from the front desk while he poured salt across the threshold. Reese waved lamely, suddenly aware that he must look like the Unabomber. Still, he breathed easier when there were salt lines across the window and door; he went back to the foam pad and sleeping bag in the corner and curled up.

Mrs. Reid tapped him awake at the end of the day. He lurched, but she had stepped back already, clearly a farm-raised woman familiar with skittish animals. It was already pitch black outside and she'd wrapped herself in practically the entire winter coat catalog. "Will you be staying here tonight, then?" she inquired primly.

Reese stared up at her, dizzy with this strange feeling he had inside. Like he'd tripped and was just waiting for the ground to hit him. "Can I?" he asked, and his voice broke on the words. The ground smacked hard and he cracked.

Mrs. Reid set her purse down on the table and pulled a chair over to where he hunched against the wall. He could see her there, seated calmly with her hands in her lap; and he could see himself, like he was outside his own body watching this thin, filthy young man bark hoarse sobs. The sound made him hot and ashamed, like he should be stronger, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"It's gone," the young man on the floor gasped, huddled against the wall. "It's all gone."

************************  
  
 _'06_

They were almost to Blue Earth before Dean murmured, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam pulled over to the side of the road and got out in the middle of a rainstorm. Dean did not follow, but sat watching his little brother pace back and forth, shoulders hunched against the rain.

When he climbed back inside, he pulled the door shut against the world. All the most important moments of their lives occurred in the cabs of traveling homes.

"I woke up," Sam whispered, staring out at the beaten grass of a wheat field. "In the Impala, right after the semi creamed us. I was only out a few seconds. The trucker was coming down the hill and I shot him with the Colt just before he opened my door.

"I was pretty messed up, but I managed to get my cell phone out and call 9-1-1. Dad was still breathing, but I couldn't wake him up and he was on the side, right where the semi hit us. I couldn't reach you. The semi truck's headlights were still on and I could see you, though. You were… you were bad. Had blood everywhere.

"The headlights started flickering. Like back in Salvation, when the demon came."

He pulled in a deep breath. The windows had started to fog over. Dean said nothing, kept his hands unmoving in his lap.

"I popped the trunk and grabbed all the salt we had left. Then I pulled you out, too. Don't know how, my arm was broken and I couldn't even _see_ out of my left eye. But I got you out and drew a protection ring around us both.

"There wasn't time for Dad. I watched it take his body, walk off grinning when the ambulance rolled up."

After a minute Dean said thickly, "You shoulda…"

" _Don't_ ," Sam shouted, his eyes squeezed tight. In a lower voice, "Don't fucking say it. I chose you. It wasn't even a question. There never was and there never will be."

Dean made a noise of disbelief and anguish. He shut his eyes and turned away.

After the windshield wipers had made sixty-seven circuits, Sam wiped at his face, coughed, and put the truck back into gear.

-o-

They had to pull over once more before Blue Earth so that Dean could put himself back together. It was a quick job and Sam could still see where the edges grated together; but then again, he was _Sam_ and he doubted whether anyone else would notice.

Pastor Jim's church stood mostly empty, the remnants of police tape fluttering the wind. A husky, bearded man stood by the front door, hands in the pockets of his Wranglers. When they walked up the path he said, "Christo" as a greeting.

"Christo yourself, Darryl," Dean replied.

"How you boys doing?" Darryl did not wait for an answer, but jerked his head inside. "Bobby said you were comin'. Best get indoors before the rain makes Noahs of us all."

-o-

"Happened downstairs," Darryl exposited as he laid out three steaming coffee mugs. "Couldn't have cops mucking around in his stash, so Terry and I got his body upstairs. Hell of a thing," he added, shaking his head and staring into his mug with weary eyes. "Hell of a goddamn thing."

"Thanks for seeing us," Sam murmured quietly. "Don't think many people would, these days."

Darryl grunted, took a sip. "Your daddy was a Jarhead, boys. Family's family."

Dean moved slightly but did not speak. Sam licked his lips and went on. "Bobby said there's a church somewhere northwest of here. He didn't know exactly where, but he said that Dad wanted us to go there."

Darryl set his mug down slowly, a frown drawing his brows together. "That place in Alberta?"

"We don't know where it is. Bobby said that the property belonged to Pastor Jim."

The older hunter was already nodding. "I know the place you're talkin' about. Old, old church. Originally a mission, I think. Jim set it up as a kind of safe house for hunters, anyone passing through the area. He had it blessed and marked with everything he knew, some things he didn't. For a while it was the safest joint anywhere in North America until a flood went through in '97. People quit using it after that."

"So what's there now?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowed.

Darryl looked back and forth between them slowly. The gesture raised hairs on Sam's neck. "'Bout five months ago, Jim asked me to watch his house while he was gone. Your daddy had called, said he had to go to Chicago for something, and asked Jim for some kinda favor. Jim wouldn't say what, but he told me he was goin' up to that church.

"It didn't seem like a big deal and I wouldn't be rememberin' it except Jim came back a couple days later with the darkest look on his face. Like Hell had opened up a new mouth or something. He spent three hours on the phone with your daddy and it didn't sound good. There was somethin' he brought back with 'im, too, wrapped up in a tarp in the bed of his pickup."

Sam's hands, even wrapped around the coffee mug, felt cold. "What?"

"Bones. Human bones. Weren't long dead, neither."

************************

_'05_

Reese had never been good at staying in one place for any length of time. He recovered quickly from his fit of hypothermia and took to wandering through the small library at night, picking random books off the shelves. He'd never been much of a reader, but they had a fairly limited supply of magazines and there were only so many times he could peruse the same issue of _Sports Illustrated_. 

Even with the small flashlight Mrs. Reid had given him, it was hard to tell sometimes what he was choosing until he got back to his room (moved from the kitchenette to the computer nook, where the hum and heat from their two ancient PCs suited him better). Sometimes he'd wind up reading the latest cookie-cutter John Grisham, but he'd occasionally grab a _Sweet Valley High_ or one of the few illicit romance novels by accident. After a while he even started reading those and was startled at their insights into the feminine mind. Especially the parts with porn.

He also found Mrs. Reid's collection of banned books. She kept them in a cardboard box under the kitchen sink marked with a large red X. Most were romance novels, but a few caught Reese's eye. Books about Wicca and Satanism, alternate readings of the Bible, even _The Da Vinci Code_. He devoured all of them, and scrawled protective pentagrams on the bottoms of his shoes. The computers and their inch-worm dialup gave him access to a million sites about demonic possession, exorcisms, and protective measures – he always deleted the browser history, though, so as not to violate Mrs. Reid's delicate sensibilities.

In the day he alphabetized and shelved books, moving cautiously along the edges. Fortunately Kurt and Heather kept their distance and there were few bookworms willing to brave the snow for Dickens. The rare times that someone did come in, Reese eased himself into a corner or around a bookshelf, fingers clenched on his sleeves and Latin falling in whispers from his lips. They were all just farmers and ranchers, though, shaking snow from their shoulders and talking in voices roughened by the cold.

In the corner stood a small Christmas tree surrounded by presents for local kids in need. Reese studiously ignored it.

At the end of the week, Heather screwed up her courage and asked him, "So where are you from?"

Reese sat on the floor and focused on alphabetizing the stack of magazines in front of him, his insides shivering. Her legs, clad in plain, sensible sweats, stood in the corner of his vision, shifting back and forth. After a pause, she scuffled her feet and slunk away.

Sometimes it all crashed in on him: the silence, the isolation. It usually happened at night, on the edge of sleep when he'd lowered his mental guards. Sometimes he'd forget where he was, and expect Tim or his mom to holler up that he was late for school; when he woke, he'd lie still with moisture leaking over his temples, wondering how it had come to this. 

Other times he felt the same panic that he had back at the church, pacing among the shelves with his heart flinging itself against his sternum. Once, he even ran outside and raced around and around the library until he couldn't feel his toes, until his mind was blank and endless. Then he could sleep.

-o-

Christmas rolled in like a suffocating blanket of good will and togetherness. Reese had yet to say a word to anyone except Mrs. Reid, but she insisted that he attended the Festival of Choirs, a gathering of churches from all over the county. Reese refused until she took him by the shoulders and said, "Boy. Whatever you are afraid of, you can either be afraid of it forever, or not."

Reese stayed up most the night reading Dante's _Inferno_. Near dawn, it occurred to him that there wasn't much point to being alive if he wasn't _alive_.

Most of the town headed out in a caravan, following Mike Lewis in his snow plow. They drove slow, chains and studs rattling against the pavement. Reese sat in Mrs. Reid's old Volkswagon GTI and watched the muffled world of snow go by. It looked like the frozen 9th level of Hell, where the Devil lived. Mrs. Reid had Christmas carols turned on low and she sang along quietly, loosening up her voice.

The streets in Morris were already lined with cars by the time they drove in. "People come from all over," Mrs. Reid explained, breaking the silence. For the first time, her voice held no hints of disapproval and she was actually smiling. "All denominations, too. The Mennonites have some funny ideas, but they always bring such wonderful food."

They did indeed. The Mormons weren't too far behind, with their peach cobblers and the frosted sugar cookies that must have taken them hours to decorate as ornate stars. And then there were the Baptists, who, while not decorative, overwhelmed with simple _might_ , fudge and cookies and lemon bars and cheesecakes. The non-denominational community choir was in charge of decorations and they strung Christmas lights all over the high school cafeteria. From atop a ladder, Heather startled when she saw him and then waved hesitantly.

Then they opened up the doors to the auditorium and everyone flooded upstairs. Mrs. Reid firmly escorted him to the first three rows on the right hand side ("You're Baptist tonight, son") and the singing started.

And he'd missed it. God, he'd missed it.

The high school choir performed first, and though they weren't bad Reese remembered the Como Park High School choir and felt a deep, wounded pang inside his chest. Then the Mennonites got up and sang without accompaniment in their homemade dresses and scooped bonnets, the men in plain black, all of them instinctively tuned to each other. Mrs. Reid joined the Baptists, left Reese alone among those first three rows. They sang like they lived and cooked, loud and proud, heads thrown back and their chests glistening with Christmas pins. Mrs. Reid stood in the alto section, face unbending and coming to life on "Joy to the World" like she really _meant_ it.

The last group were the Mormons and Reese felt everything inside melt, because they sang "The Messiah." And he knew every note, laughing along to the music in relief because even if it was just one song or a selection of Handel, he knew how it would end. There was no other way that they could end the night. For once, he knew _exactly_ where this was going.

When the strings kicked in and everyone – _everyone_ , all the Mennonites and the Mormons and the Baptists and the atheists – got up, Reese put back his head and hit the bass line with everything in his lungs. " _Haaaaaa-lle-lu-jah! Haaaaaa-lle-lu-jah!_ "

Mrs. Reid stared at his back. He probably didn't sound all that great, it'd been months and months since he'd even spoken, much less sung. Not that anyone could hear him: the voice of every choir and their families hit the roof of the small auditorium, crowded into the holes and cracks in the walls to drive back the night. _Here_ was safety: no demon could survive this. Not these notes. They were indestructible, a wall of noise that would hold anything back.

Between the last two _Hallelujahs_ was a beat, a breath, when the wall broke and rolled back, then returned like the Red Sea collapsing.

" _Ha-LLEEE-luuuu-JAAAAAAH!_ "

-o-

"You have an amazing voice," Heather said, bright hazel eyes peeking up through her glasses; maybe one person had heard him after all. It'd been three weeks since the Festival and he could tell she'd been screwing her courage up. 

Kurt glowered from somewhere among the Mystery section. Reese smiled down at her, fumbling with a Terry Brooks book about elves and sorcery. Dammit, he'd been a celibate hermit way too long: he used to be _good_ at this, smooth, a line ready to throw out for the girls at school. It felt like such a long time ago, so alien to him now, like a suit that didn't fit. Still, he still remembered enough to know that gagging for sex was _not_ the best way to impress the ladies. "Thanks."

Either the rules had changed or chubby-but-beautiful Heather had never heard them, because when he reached out in the hallway and touched her arm, she turned toward him instead of pulling away. She was all wide eyes and innocent of how very dark the world had turned out to be, like she didn't understand that nice country girls should not consort with strange boys who slept in library computer rooms, spoke broken Latin, and had scraggly-ass long hair hanging in their eyes.

He fucked her against the bathroom wall, trying to be gentle and quietly cursing himself when he couldn't; he was too starved for contact, both physical and emotional. She made a little noise of pain, but hung onto his shoulders anyway, rode out his fear and grief and anger until it broke and he sagged against the wall, holding her up and being held up.

It'd been so long since he'd been touched. Just touched, the way her hand moved over his shoulder seeking reassurance. He gave it, shifting his arms to pull her a little closer, to get more of her wrapped around him. Arms and legs and hair and so much skin. He pressed his face into the side of her neck and stayed there as long as he dared.

-o-

The demons came right after the holiday season, at the beginning of January.

Reese walked into the main section of the library, books in hand, and found pretty, shy Heather with her throat ripped out, slumped over the front desk. Mrs. Reid lay on the floor nearby and Kurt, eyes blackened, smiled and smiled while the room went up in flames around them.

Reese, who had never really believed all the way, dropped the books and reached into his back pocket. He threw down a line of salt in the doorway and took off running down the hall.

The snow still lay thick and he ran heedlessly through it, blinded by the reflection of sun on its white surface. He ran until his lungs burned and his throat choked, and he prayed that he would never sing again.

 


	5. In Which There Is a Meeting and It Really Does Not Go Well

_Spring '06_

It occurred to Reese, curled up that night in someone's barn, that even if his mother hadn't been his fault, Heather and Mrs. Reid most definitely _were_. He'd grieved for his mother, grieved until it stole his words and froze him; for Heather and Mrs. Reid there was nothing but a cold, clear rage. It burrowed down beneath his skin, under the layers of fear and shock that had wrapped around him for half a year.

As soon as it was light, he got up and ran the rest of the way back to the church. A farmer shouted at him from atop a tractor as he passed; Reese curled his lips and kept running. 

They would be after him now for sure, the demons. They'd find him soon. He didn't have much time and as soon as he reached the church and ran through its ancient wooden doors, Reese knew that he was through hiding.

The church was pretty much how he had left it, though with sheets of ice where the roof had leaked through. He took quick stock of supplies: most the food had gone bad and he was horrified to discover that water had gotten in the salt and solidified it to one clump.

Then he walked into the bedroom and found that a pregnant cat had recently given birth and was contentedly suckling her mewling newborns in the middle of his bed.

Reese blinked at her and she stared back with a note of challenge. She was a calico, probably belonged to one of the farmers nearby, and had taken refuge during the last snowstorm. With great care Reese broke off a bit of the salt clump and laid a line over the threshold. Then he politely closed the door and returned to laying his preparations.

A week later he was back in town, hurrying through the grocery store with a thumping heart. He bought a large supply of salt, non-perishables, and cat food. Halfway through the shopping trip, the sheriff's department showed up; Reese disguised his "Christus" as a cough and went with them willingly, fingering the small knife in his back pocket. 

Apparently it hadn't been ruled an arson. They didn't handcuff him, didn't put him in any enclosed rooms. Just sat him down inside a trailer that was serving as the temporary city hall (they'd always used a small room in the library). Reese told them yes, he'd been working at the library, yes, he saw the fire, no, he ran out when it started, no, he didn't see Heather or Mrs. Reid, he'd been scared for himself and he ran away. They silently thought him a coward and he let them. It was the truth.

When they let him go he went straight back to the grocery store. The clerks all looked frightened and startled to see him back: they must have been expecting an arrest. There he is, the boy who did it, the crazy kid, oh he's batshit insane, you know, talks to himself all the time, Latin, I think. Burned down the library, killed two women. One of them gave him a home and he fucked the other one and now they're both dead. You think that's a coincidence? They'd be talking about it for a while, in a town this small. Anyone who didn't see him firsthand would hear about it the next day. 

Reese gritted his teeth and thought, _Come on, you fuckers. Come and get me_.

-o-

He set a large bowl of cat food inside the bedroom door, remade the salt line there, and sat down in the kitchen to wait. It didn't take long.

The back door snapped straight off its hinges and Kurt came through, followed by a slender woman that Reese had seen several times in the library. "Hi, there, Reese!" Kurt greeted cheerfully, completely unlike his usual grumpiness.

Reese grabbed the pan of grease and Holy Water that he'd kept simmering on the stove and chucked it at them. Kurt dodged most of it, but it hit his companion square in the chest and face. She screamed, clawing at herself, and Reese took off running.

There was a small hallway that connected the rectory to the sanctuary. Kurt caught Reese at the end of it, dragging him to the ground and pressing him there. Laughter rang in Reese's ears as he was ground into the floor, bones grating together.

Reese sucked in a breath, hooked his limbs in Kurt's, lunged forward, and _flipped_. It almost didn't work: he'd lost a lot of muscle mass and was out of practice, but then the demon in Kurt gave a grunt of surprise as its own unnatural strength was used against it. And then Reese was on top, panting and glaring. "Varsity Wrestling, _prick_!" He head-butted Kurt's nose.

The grip on him loosened momentarily and he ripped away, leaving skin under Kurt's nails. The demon howled with pain and rage and then Reese was running, running fast as he could through the sanctuary and out the front door. 

He could only hope that his father had been right and they couldn't enter the sanctuary. He could only hope that it would take them a few seconds to figure that out. He could only hope that he was fast enough, as he sprinted around the side of the building, racing for all he was worth.

When he got to the back door the woman was screaming "Where is he?" and standing in the near end of the hallway. Beyond, Kurt had obviously figured it out and was lunging past her, trying to push her out of the way.

Reese grabbed the packet of salt he'd placed beside the back door and threw it as hard as he could at the doorway above them. It burst open on impact and a sheet of salt rained down over the hallway's end, trapping them inside.

************************

_Fall '06_

When they left the church that had been Pastor Jim's, Dean turned back once and said, "If you see Dad around, do _not_ let him in."

Darryl looked at their faces grimly. "You boys got a hard run of it ahead of you. Good luck."

-o-

The drive to Alberta took five hours. They pulled into the small town in around midday, and the bite of winter already nibbled along the edges.

"Dude, slow down," Dean muttered suddenly.

Sam obliged and followed his brother's gaze. To their right was a half-built structure that looked like it had been abandoned somewhere in the construction process. Outside on the lawn stood an old sign: "Alberta Public Library." Beside the sign were two white crosses, adorned with wilted flowers and candles that had burned themselves down to lumps.

Dean slid out the EMF meter. It muttered, just a faint signal but then again, they were a good thirty feet away from the main door. He re-pocketed the meter and sat back, face hard. 

"Whaddya think?"

"Pull in here and let's talk to some locals."

The restaurant had switched management lately, thought they hadn't gotten around to changing the name on the menus. "Just passing through," Dean said with a wide smile to the waitress, sounding nothing like a man who had escaped from a hospital a week ago and still had the internal stitches to prove it. "We're looking for work, actually… m'brother and I are in construction. Actually, we noticed that new library that's going up. You don't happen to know if anybody's hiring for that job?"

The main gist of the following hushed discussion was summarized by a chunky ranch wife from the booth next to theirs. "That place won't ever be built. Construction's had more accidents than all the county's ranches put together. People falling down, things breaking… finally they just pulled up stakes and quit trying."

"And the two crosses outside?" Sam inquired. The two women glanced at each other. "Were they from the construction accidents or…"

"Before. There was a fire in the old library, burned the building to the ground. Killed two people inside, the librarian and a girl that worked there." The ranch wife shook her head mournfully. "Oh, Lord, it was awful. Broke everyone's hearts. The librarian, Marnie Reid, she was the reverend's widow. Used to teach my boys at Sunday school. And the girl, Heather Edwards, she wasn't a day more than 16. The sweetest, shyest thing you ever saw."

"Did they ever find out what happened?"

"Fire department came in all the way from St. Cloud. They looked over the place from top to bottom, couldn't find anything that mighta set it."

"I'll tell you what," the waitress said quietly. "That fire department can say whatever they want. I still think that boy did it, and if you asked half the people in here right now, they'd all say the same."

"What boy?" Dean asked sharply.

"Some homeless kid that Marnie Reid took in. She actually let him _sleep_ in the library, I heard. Never caught his name, but he was a big kid and he had this _look_ around him… something dangerous." She shook her head critically. "He disappeared the day of the fire, came back a week later. The sheriffs questioned him, I think. Didn't do much good, he left town pretty soon after that."

"He wasn't the only one," murmured the ranch wife. "Billy Hensen's kid, Kurt. He worked in the library, too. For a while we all thought that he must have died in the fire, but they went over that place with a fine tooth comb and didn't find any other bodies. Then Kelly Miles up the street. She vanished, too." She cast an eye over them. "I'd be careful around town if I were you two. People 'round here are spooked, scared of shadows."

-o-

They left with pecan pie glued to their molars and troubled stomachs. Sam still had to eat gingerly, his jaw still aching from stitches.

They drove out of town silently, and it felt like a giant other shoe hung over their heads just waiting to drop. Back in the driver's seat, Dean tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, not following any particular rhythm. His eyes danced along the road ahead like there were portents of doom to be found in brokedown fences and empty fields.

When the church steeple rose up out of the ground they slowed to a crawl, then a stop.

"Trap?" Sam asked in a low voice, eyes fixed to that wooden peak. Only fragments of white clung to the graying exterior and even from here he could see a sizable hole in the roof.

"It said we had a nasty surprise coming," Dean replied grimly. "At this point, demons wouldn't be much of a surprise."

*************************

_Spring '06_

The calico apparently _didn't_ belong to a local farm, because she seemed perfectly content to stay. She even deigned, with chilly regality, to let Reese name her children. Struck by a perverse mood, he called them Christ, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, and Mordac, Lord of Fury. He wasn't sure where that last one came from, but it seemed appropriate: the smallest of the litter, a black kitten with yellow eyes, was clearly lord, master and heir apparent to his queenly mother. Reese sat in the bedroom with the door closed for long hours at a time, kittens nestled in his armpits, the crooks of his elbows, draped over his neck and sucking on his ear-lobes. (Which was the _weirdest damn feeling_ until he realized that they must resemble their mother's teats.)

At first he avoided going into the kitchen, until familiarity bred contempt; after a week of snarled insults and mind games, he'd gotten comfortable enough to regularly put his feet up at the table and read aloud from passages of the watermarked Bibles. 

His two captive demons hissed furiously. They'd long since given up pacing the hall and testing their bonds. Now they crouched at the end, toeing the line of salt and snarling at him every time he entered the room.

"Your mommy burns in hell," the woman spat through her burned face. "She was a whore who screwed around on her husband."

"'If we live," Reese answered calmly, "'we live to the Lord; and if we die, we die to the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.' And your mother sucks shit, asshole."

They hissed and writhed.

-o-

"These are human bodies," Kurt murmured, his black eyes watching Reese's movements from the cupboards to the table and back. Fixing himself breakfast. "If we starve, then I guess that make you a murderer, doesn't it?"

Reese took the spoon out of his mouth and stirred his oatmeal. 

"How do you know this pissant little prison will hold us once these bodies die?"

He swallowed hard. Because he didn't, at all. He had no idea if they'd just slip out through the cracks and find someone else to throw at him, or maybe possess _him_. Reese thought of his father, who was just a man, with a few books and a lot of faith even if it wasn't in God. There had to have been moments like this, when he flew it by the seat of his pants with his life and possibly immortal soul hanging in the balance.

-o-

In the beginning of February Kurt killed the woman and ate her. Reese went outside until she'd stopped screaming and when he came back her blood had splattered on the walls and floor, pulling away from the salt line. Kurt smiled at him and sucked the marrow from one of her finger bones. Over his head, the demon inside of her had become a black cloud that moved back and forth along the hallway, seeking escape.

Reese went into his bedroom and played with the kittens for a while after that, put his face against their fur and thought about blood and dying. Thought about his mother, above his head, split open like a ripe cantaloupe, but only for a second; then all the doors slammed shut in the winds of self-preservation.

There was no space left inside him for agony this huge; sometimes he woke up in the night with everything hanging above him, pressing him down into the stained mattress like a meteor. In the day, though, the grief and rage and horror of what he was doing locked up just above his heart, a bottleneck of emotions trying to cram their way in at once and keeping all of them out. 

He moved about the small church, tending to the cats, laying the salt, scrubbing until his fingers bled, staring at the walls, watching Kurt's eyes sink into the back of his skull.

He was starving this boy to death. He could do it. It needed to be done, that was all, and he would do it. He just needed to hold on, and he could do that, too.

-o-

Springtime announced its impending arrival with the faint _drip-drip_ of melting snow. Reese took long runs through along the country roads, wondering if demons could possess cows; he did pushups with his feet elevated on pews. There was no vanity in these actions, but a steady progression towards purpose, the same cold fire of rage tamped and turned into an ember; he wasn't sure, yet, if it would sustain him, but it felt pretty damned good. In mid-February the night got warm enough and he went into town, broke into the grocery store for supplies. They still hadn't rebuilt the library, and the two white crosses outside made Reese's stomach turn over.

The demon glared at him from deadened eyes. "I could tell you things," it rasped. "Secrets not even your father knows."

Reese sat back. "All right. Tell me why. Why our family?" He grabbed a cereal bar, held it up. "You tell me and I feed you."

It – _easier to think_ It _instead of_ he, Kurt, boy – curled its lips, but answered. "Your daddy was hunting our family. So we hunted his. Fair is fair."

"Bullshit. I'm not his family, he didn't even know he _had_ me. And my," Reese gritted his teeth, felt the meteor pushing down above his head, "my mother. He fucked her, what, once?" The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he could do this. He could say things like this, about Mom. _It_ had said worse and he was numb by now, all the doors shut up tight and barred. _Do not enter_. _Condemned_.

It searched him, smiled slowly. "She was a bonus. Just something else we could use against him, like you. That's all you are, Reese. Leverage."

Reese studied it thoughtfully, calculating. It aimed to hurt, but he'd moved beyond its range. "You guys made the first move. You killed his wife." The black eyes flickered, narrowed. "Was she leverage, too? For what?" When it didn't answer, he held up the breakfast bar. "No answer, no food."

It showed its teeth again; they'd started to rot. "Why should I feed this body?"

Reese gestured to the black cloud above its head, which hissed feebly. It had grown sluggish and weak in the last few days. "Ask your friend."

"Fuck you. You'll be damned for this. God doesn't like murderers."

The laugh that came out of Reese's throat startled even himself. "Probably not. You gonna answer me, fucker?"

It sucked in a breath. "He had something that belonged to us. That's all I know. That's what I was _told_."

Reese believed it, without really knowing why. There were plenty of things that demons wanted; he rose from the table to search through the scant research notes that he'd put together, scrawled on the walls.

He left the cereal bar on the table. The demon howled its betrayal.

-o-

Kurt's body finally gave out in March. It slumped and bloated and rotted; the weather was still too cold for bugs, but the smell was horrendous.

Reese took the kittens out into the half-melted fields. The calico was dead: she'd wandered too close to the salt line one day and the thought made Reese dizzy in ways that nothing else could. The sun reflected off dazzling snow and he bent low over the kittens.

He had won. The two demons were trapped, endlessly circling and snapping at each other. He'd outlasted them. Reese shuddered in the cold and knew with dead, calm certainty that he'd never be warm again in his life.

-o-

In the middle of May, a truck pulled up out front. Reese didn't recognize it and the man inside walked straight into the sanctuary, so Reese slipped out the back door and ran across the empty field beyond, taking a backpack full of startled, mewling kittens with him. He took his knife as well, intending to slip around front and cut the intruder's throat as he left the church.

He'd seen the Missing posters around town when he went in for supplies: Kurt and this other woman named Kelly Miles. Now their broken and withered corpses lay side by side in the hallway with the shadows of demons circling endlessly overhead. Reese had long since gotten used to the smell, but if his new visitor walked into the same trap and got possessed, he was pretty sure he didn't want to watch the whole starvation process all over again.

The man had left the keys in his pickup. Reese contemplated driving off with it, taking to the road, when he heard shouting in Latin. Startled, he hid on the side of the road and waited.

After a while the man came back out. Reese peeked through the brambles and caught glimpses of priest robes and a grim face. It looked like he was carrying something.

The truck door slammed and then it pulled away. When he went back inside, the bones and the demons were gone.

-o-

There was another car outside.

Reese stood by the kitchen sink, paused in the act of filling the cats' bowl. It quickly overflowed and spilled cold water onto his hand. Mordac, Lord of Fury lifted his small head from Reese's shoulder and meowed as the motor switched off.

When he went out into the sanctuary and saw the black pickup with the enormous wheels, the world lurched and he almost fell to his knees, sobbing and screaming thanks that it was over, that his father had come back after all.

Then he saw the two men coming up the dirt path with guns. 

************************

They got all the way into the sanctuary before something whistled and Dean flung himself down like a lead balloon. Sam lurched backward and air whooshed against his face as a piece of wood swung past.

Dean was at their feet, vulnerable, so Sam didn't pause to check for demon-dark eyes. Just brought the pistol up and fired.

Metal hit flesh and the kid huffed outward, like the bullet had driven all the air from his lungs. He stumbled back and Sam saw his face, saw the blue eyes and a straight nose. The wide jaw and high cheekbones were at once completely foreign and utterly familiar.

He wavered and dropped. Sam sucked in a breath. " _Fuck_."


	6. In Which There is Fallout and Minor Surgery in the Kitchen

Dean rolled over, hand to his belly. "Didja get it?"

Sam's knees cracked against the floor. The kid wasn't a day over 19, with light features and ash blond hair, long-limbed in a way that made Sam's bones ache in remembered growing pains. One of the kid's mile-long legs flopped aimlessly across the floor and Sam wet his lips. "Jesus, I'm sorry, hold still, it's okay…" He bent over to reach the wound.

The kid's arm lashed out, clocking him straight in the jaw. The punch caught Sam with his mouth open, and blood blossomed there instantly. He reared back, clapping a hand over his split lip. "Ohf, faack…"

There was a scrape and a clatter and then the kid lurched away, hunched around his own body. Sam could hear his fast, frantic breath, the faint moan he made as he twisted and fell back against a pew.

He had Sam's gun, but raised it stiff-armed in a way that would send the recoil up his whole arm. The barrel shook unsteadily, not that it'd make much difference: Sam was a big target. 

Sam dove sideways, crashing into Dean just as the gun went off; they sprawled together between the pews and Sam pushed, scrabbling to get further out of range. Dean apparently liked that plan, because he hooked his forearms under Sam's armpits and pulled; the pair of them crabbed awkwardly across the dirty floor to take cover.

The gun fired again, but nowhere near them; the shot was followed by a scuffle of sneakers on wood. Dean levered the shotgun back into the crook of his shoulder and Sam grabbed the barrel. " _No_ , Dean, wait…"

The soles of shoes slapped against wood, racing away from them. They stumbled once and the kid made a high, keening sound of pain from somewhere near the wall before fading entirely. 

Dean pushed himself up into a crouch and met Sam's eyes. "Where'd you hit him?"

 _Him, not it_. Sam swallowed hard. "Shoulder, I think. Not – not fatal." 

Dean grunted once and stood up, shoulders hunched and eyes scanning; Sam rose to stand one step to his side, one step back. 

Nothing else took a swing at them, so Dean moved towards the small, empty doorway to the side of the altar. Old wood creaked beneath their feet and it was every familiar haunt, every ancient house that they'd tramped through after some dead or dying thing. Sam swallowed again and remembered that flash of wide blue eyes.

The blue eyes were closed, now. The kid lay curled up in a heap at the end of the hallway to the rectory; Sam's stomach did a back-flop, but then the young man shifted a bit, huddling in around the pain. There was a fresh line of salt at the end of the hall, and an overturned package of the stuff lay underneath the kid's outstretched hand, trickling out across the floor. Dean glanced sideways and raised his eyebrows at Sam, who grimaced and wondered how Dean would react when he saw the kid's face.

No time like the present: he swallowed and stepped past Dean, who made an angry noise of protest and grabbed at Sam's shoulder. The kid wasn't happy about it either, rearing back and raising the gun even after Sam pointedly stepped across the salt line; but shock was already taking its toll and the blue eyes rolled back. Sam darted forward, wincing at the strain to his own injuries, and caught the boy's head before it smacked to the floor.

Then stared down at the pale face laid against his forearm. At the freckles and long lashes, the tangled, dirty hair.

"You done with the dramatic moment there, Scarlett?" Dean growled behind him. Sam briefly considered sending Dean out of the room to get the first aid kit. 

Instead he lowered the kid's shoulders to lie flat on the ground and rocked back on his heels. "You got some holy water?"

"'Course." Dean almost sounded offended. He still hadn't looked over Sam's shoulder for a better look at the kid. "He out cold?"

"Yeah." Sam leaned across the prone body, slipping the gun away with one hand and putting pressure on the wound with the other. "Help me get him up."

When Dean grunted and stepped forward, Sam moved his arm so that he wasn't blocking the kid's face. _No point in forestalling the inevitable_ , he thought grimly, and tilted his head back to look at Dean. Watched Dean's expression with wide eyes, heart in his mouth, to see if Dean _saw_ and came to the same impossible conclusion.

Dean stopped short and stared down at version of _himself_ seven years gone by.

"Dean," Sam said after an awful beat of realization. "He's bleeding here. Help me."

That brought Dean around with a lurch: he looked between Sam and the kid – _comparing?_ – a moment longer before crouching down with a wince. He'd probably done some damage to his own body with that dive to the floor back in the church, and Sam groaned inwardly. 

Between the two of them, they still managed to haul the kid's limp body up into a chair. His head lolled and the sensitive, hurt mouth fell open on a whimper.

Standing at Sam's elbow, Dean stared from beneath the sharp line of his brows, his own bow-shaped lips parted in astonishment. Sam gave up and muttered, "Better get the first aid kit, dude."

Dean refused to leave until Sam poured half the bottle of holy water over the kid's head, and then he left in a big damn hurry. In his absence, Sam dug through the kitchen drawers until he came up with a knife, and proceeded to cut the kid's shirt off him. The body underneath rode the fine edge between lean and skinny; when Sam wiped blood away from the shoulder, he uncovered a whole splatter of freckles, miniature constellations of sun exposure.

The kid had his eyes open again and Sam lurched instinctively for a moment before he realized that they were black with pain and fear, not possession; shivers spread as the kid's body landed squarely in shock. Sam used the shirt's tattered remains to press against the wound then, tentatively, gripped the kid's jaw and raised it.

Breath wheezed in the kid's throat and blew out at Sam feebly; his eyes held a haze of pain, black cores surrounded by a ring of blue.

"Hi," Sam greeted softly. "I'm Sam."

That clearly meant something: the kid's eyes widened and lost their hardness. It was all a little too much, though, because then they promptly rolled to the whites and the kid slumped back into unconsciousness.

Dean stood in the doorway astride the salt line, the kit in his hands. "What the hell, Sam."

"I know," Sam murmured quietly. His hands held a wad of bloodied cloth against the kid's shoulder, but his eyes darted to the doorway to Dean's left. "Demons can't possess cats, can they?"

Dean followed his gaze to their wide and varied feline audience: four cats of varies sizes and colors sat in the doorway staring at them, tails and noses twitching suspiciously. A fifth, smaller, all-black cat stood atop the kitchen table amongst over-turned dishes, glaring at Sam.

"Uh," Dean replied, eyeing the black one, "don't think so."

"Good, 'cause I think this one's gonna take a swipe at me pretty soon."

The black cat hissed, back arching; but it didn't run, just planted its skinny little feet and glared that much harder. Dean moved to Sam's side and glared back. "If that thing jumps at either one of us, I'm taking it out. Demon or no demon."

The cat hissed again.

-o-

Reese woke up to white-hot pain in his shoulder. His body was already moving without waiting for instruction, bucking and twisting to just _get away_ from whatever was causing this bone-melting agony; his screams echoed back to him off the kitchen walls.

"Fuck, Sam, hold him the fuck still!" A voice roared above him and Reese kicked out instinctively, nailing something. There was a yelp; the pain lessened a bit and his vision cleared.

A tall, blond-haired guy stood in front of him dressed in sweat-and-blood-stained flannel and jeans. He was glaring at Reese and rubbing his knee with one hand; in the other he held a pair of bloody tweezers. Reese's stomach went cold. He bucked again, trying to lash out, but found that his arms were squarely and inarguably immobilized.

"Take it easy," a voice said in his ear, _way_ too fucking close. It was the other guy, holding him from behind, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other hooked over his uninjured shoulder. He had Reese neatly pinned against the chair, a good wrestler's hold; Reese bucked against it anyway, his breath coming hard and fast and _fuck_ that hurt his shoulder. 

"Wait – wait, stop, you're gonna hurt yourself!" The guy at his back tightened his grip. "We're not going to hurt you!"

 _Yeah, right._ Reese sucked in a breath and blurted, "Gloria in Excelsis Deo."

They both paused at that, a breath of surprise and silent communication. The guy in front of him straightened, his eyes narrowed. "In Nomine Patri."

Reese gaped at him and shuddered; for the first time he realized how very cold he felt. The guy behind him spoke in his ear again. "Your body's in shock. I hit you high on the shoulder, so your lungs are probably okay, but your heart's slowing down to prevent blood loss. If you keep bleeding like you are, you'll go into hypovolemic shock. Your organs will shut down, starting with your kidneys. So you can either keep fighting, or let us help you."

There didn't seem to be enough air in the room. Reese sucked as much as he could into his lungs. "You _shot_ me."

The blond guy snorted. "You tried to use my head as a wiffle ball, dude. Not the best idea. We're not demons and we're not gonna shoot you. …Well, shoot you _again_. So you gonna hold still or not?"

Reese couldn't get his eyes to move quite the way he wanted; they jumped around and wouldn't focus no matter how much he squinted. Still, he got enough of a look at the blond guy's face to see… "Dean?" he croaked.

The blond stiffened. "Yeah," he answered after a moment.

Reese sucked in another ragged breath; his lungs felt like weak tissue paper, bound to rupture at any moment. "Sam?" he inquired of the air.

"Yeah," the voice in his ear said.

"Well, fuck," Reese swore, and slumped.

Dean edged closer, glaring. "You gonna hold still?"

Gray was creeping at the edges of Reese's vision. "I don't wanna die," he moaned, miserable and exhausted. Not now, not after _everything_ , Christ, it wasn't _fair._

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, and dug the tweezers back into Reese's shoulder.

Reese howled and flailed, but Dean had stepped forward to put his weight against Reese's legs and Sam tightened his grip and he couldn't _move_ and they had their _hands on him_ and _holy fuck, no, this was not good leggo leggo leggo…_

He didn't even realize he was speaking aloud until Dean snapped back, "Hold the fuck _still_ , you little prick!"

"Let go!" Reese gasped, and that came out high and desperate enough to be embarrassing, but he was helpless against the rush of panic in his chest. "Lemme go, _let go right fucking now!_ "

"Got it," Dean grunted. He stepped back, his hands slick with Reese's blood and a bullet held between the tweezers.

Sam's arms released and Reese promptly doubled forward to vomit on Dean's boots, who danced backward, grimacing as he shook half-digested cereal and stomach acid from his boots. "Oh, _nasty_ , you little…"

Big hands pushed on Reese's chest, easing him back in the chair but – thank _God_ – not pinning him down again. He was way too weak to get up, but he batted Sam's fingers away clumsily, perfectly happy to bleed to death rather than let them touch him again. It'd been so long since he'd been _touched_ , not since Heather…

That brought up another round of hurling and Sam lurched sideways to avoid it. "Take it easy." He was bigger than his brother, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Lanky, with wide palms like his – _their, our_ – father; Sam reached for him with those country-wide hands.

"Don't." Reese spat and wiped the back of his mouth unsteadily. "Just… don't fucking touch me." The world spun out and Reese squeezed his eyes shut until sparks lit behind his eyes. He heard but did not see Sam moving closer.

"We gotta bandage your shoulder, kid," Dean interjected. "Unless you feel like bleeding out after all." 

Reese's head felt so damned heavy; he tipped a bit further in the chair. "Reese," he answered thickly. "M'name's Reese."

-o-

The kid passed out again and Sam made quick work of the bandage, looping it around and under the kid's armpit, then across his shoulder. Dean fashioned a sling out of the cut-up shirt, and then they carried the scrawny little punk between them into the tiny bedroom. It wasn't much bigger than a broom closet, walls covered in madhouse scribbling; it smelled of cats, dust, and unwashed Boy.

The boy in question lay still and quiet once they set him down; not even the flurry of all five cats crowding around and on top of him could disturb the stone-cold faint that he'd fallen into.

Sam stepped back from the bed; he and Dean stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the kid. Reese. Whatever.

"Whaddya think?" Sam asked softly.

Dean looked over the kid's bony elbows, too-long hair, and stubborn jaw covered with a thin scraggle of beard, and didn't know _what_ the fuck to think. The cats circled, settling on their master with many cautious twitches and hairy eyeballs towards the intruders.

Sam, of course, just couldn't let it be. "Jesus, he looks just like you."

Dean's stomach clenched uncomfortably, but he rebounded, needing humor like a lifeline. "What're you talking about? If he looks like anybody, it's you. Both got hippie-hair."

That got a chuckle out of Sam, but he sobered almost instantly and came at it again. "Dean…"

"Don't, Sam. Just don't." Dean turned and strode out of the room. He hadn't missed the two pictures taped to the wall above the narrow cot. They were both black and white, artfully done: in one, the kid and two others – one boy and one girl – stared at the camera with solemn, pale eyes.

In the other, John Winchester stood on the narrow edge of a highway, open prairie at his back, hands in his pockets. He was looking at the camera as if he had just turned; his shoulders hunched against the cloudless sky above.

Dean went back out through the kitchen to the back door, noting the re-made salt lines that had piled up like discolored sediment. The kid had obviously been living here for a while and the thought made Dean dizzy. _Jesus, how long? How long had he been here, how long had Dad_ known…

He staggered out onto flat Minnesota earth and puked, vomiting up the pecan pie they'd eaten in town. Hands caught his elbow and Sam steadied him as he heaved and shook. Dean leaned blindly into his brother's grip and it was stupid, so stupid – _and let's not forget weak_ – because wasn't Dean supposed to be the one that held things together? That was strong? Wasn't he supposed to be the one that Dad _trusted_ and could rely on?

 _Apparently not_ , his brain sneered and he closed his eyes. _No_ , fucking no. There had to be an explanation for this.

An explanation for this string-bean kid with the almond-shaped eyes. Jesus, at least they were blue; if they'd been Sam-hazel, he's pretty sure he would've flipped out. Not that he _wasn't_ flipping out pretty badly right now, wavering on his feet and spitting into the dirt.

"Dean."

"I'm okay," he answered, and straightened.

That wasn't what had Sam freaked, though. "Who _is_ he? I mean, he can't be – did Dad ever tell you…"

Dean pulled away. "No, he didn't fucking tell me… this. Jesus, Sam." 

"Do you – he looks like he's 18, maybe 19." Sam looked impossibly young himself, eyes wide and hair blowing across his face. "I woulda only been 4, but you were 7. Do you… remember…"

" _No_ , Sam," Dean snapped, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Don't you think I'd remember something like this?"

Then, slowly, unwillingly, dragging it up from fuzzy memories: "We – we had to stay with Pastor Jim for awhile, when I was 7. Dad was in a hospital somewhere. He'd left us with Jim in Blue Earth and went hunting… a water nymph, or something. He was gone for a fucking month, no calls, nothing." He bowed his head, recalling anxiety attacks and nightmares and once – to his utter humiliation – having to sleep on the couch because he'd wet the bed. "I only remember it 'cause… I thought he might not be coming back. It was the longest we went without hearing from him or anything after Mom died and I thought something had got him, or… that he'd just _gone_."

"Dean…"

"Don't, dude, just… just gimme a minute here, okay?"

They stood like two shadows under the darkening sky, shoulders tipped towards one another. Sam, of course, couldn't just let it be. "I think," he whispered, like it shouldn't be said aloud, "he's our brother. I mean… right? He looks – but what is he _doing_ here?" He turned and stared back at the old church.

Dean shook his head, as much to clear it as negation. "Sam. He's not…"

"You saw him!" Sam said it like an accusation.

"What the fuck do you want me to say?" Dean snapped back to reality with a lurch, immediately on the defensive… though defending what against who, he didn't know. "I don't care what you think the kid looks like, he's not – Dad wouldn't just _have a kid_ and then _drop_ him someplace and never fucking tell us! Is that what you're sayin' he did?"

Sam's jaw had set, familiar glower; cuss-stubborn and dug in for the long haul, while Dean was all about flash-fires and lightning attacks. He would outlast Dean, he always did. "You wanna go back inside and look at him again?"

A million small protests flitted across the back of Dean's throat, each dying before they came to his tongue. _Shapeshifter, enchantment, hallucination, insanity_ … he'd even believe the kid inside that church had had plastic surgery to look so unmistakably _Winchester_.

Except. John had told Bobby to send them here. And Pastor Jim. Dad had _sent_ them here, wanted them to find this. _In case he died_. In case he couldn’t come back himself.

Dean turned his face away from one brother, his solitary acknowledgement of the other. Sam's shoulders fell and Dean realized that Sam had been holding out hope that he was wrong.


	7. In Which Everyone Has Stitches

Reese knew before he even opened his eyes that he was not alone, probably a result of his long isolation. Whoever it was didn't make any noise and wasn't moving; Reese still reached up and grabbed the steak knife hidden in the lip of his cot. He moaned in agony as the move jostled his wounded right shoulder, but managed to sit up partway and face his visitor.

Folded into one of the kitchen chair on the other side of the doorway, Sam raised his eyebrows at the knife. There was a row of neat stitches above his left eye and they somehow made him look both dangerous and vulnerable. "Well," he said after a minute, not taking his eyes off Reese. "You're definitely a Winchester. How's your shoulder feel?"

He had a slightly unnerving gaze, steady and implacable. Like their father's. Reese put his left shoulder against the wall and eased up, scooting his butt underneath him until he was seated. He eyed Sam. "Christus."

Sam's eyebrows leveled out. "Chris- _to_."

Reese frowned. "What?"

"It's Christo." There was a cat in Sam's lap – Buddha, from the white-tipped tail – and Sam stroked her absently, eliciting a deep rolling purr. Reese took this as a good sign: Buddha was one of the smartest, besides Mordac.

He still corrected Sam. "No, it isn't. The Latin is Christus. Chris _to_ is Greek." 

Sam's cat-stroking paused and he frowned. "I studied one of the original exorcism manuscripts in North America. It came directly from the Vatican."

Reese relaxed against the wall, flexed his right hand and winced. "Yeah, and it's wrong. There was a misprint on one of the manuscripts brought over from Europe. Nobody caught it and the name of Jesus got recopied as 'Christo' when it shoulda been 'Christus.' It's only recently that the Catholic Church officially corrected the mistake; anyone learning exorcism from the early texts is still saying the Greek instead."

Buddha meowed loudly: Sam had stopped stroking her and was staring at Reese. "Huh," he said after a moment.

From the doorway there came a burst of low, snorting laughter. 

Reese leaned forward to crane his neck around the corner. Dean stood there, his head hung low and an amused smile tugging at his mouth. Apparently Reese sounded crazy even among the crazies, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I lived in a library for two months," he explained, trying to keep his tone light and even tossing Sam a forced smile. "Wasn't much else to do but read."

Sam glanced around at the walls: Reese had been using them as one giant notepad for months. They were covered with scribbles, symbols, copied incantations, and anything else he could remember from all the books and Internet searches he'd done at the library before… before… 

Reese swallowed and slid his eyes away, then forced himself to look back. Couldn't let them think he was weak. "So where is he? Dad?"

Dean left the doorway instantly, didn't even hesitate. 

Sam twitched sideways, twisting around as if to call after his brother. By then, though, Dean had disappeared back into the kitchen and Reese watched Sam close his mouth hard.

Reese's heart sank.

"He, uh," Sam started, then stopped and stared down at his hands. "He… didn't make it. There was a car accident – it wasn't an accident, though, a demon ran into us with a semi truck."

"He… got run over?"

"Run _into_." Sam sighed and touched his eyebrow with a finger. "We all got torn up. Dean… he was in the hospital for a couple weeks. He barely made it," and his voice fell apart like a roof caving under snow.

Reese watched Sam's face, the struggle in his mouth, the way the skin under his eyes tightened as he lost the battle. In his lap, Buddha sensed the change in his emotions and rolled over, meowing and bumping her nose against his fingers.

"I couldn't get them both out," Sam whispered, his voice a low scratch. "I couldn't get them both."

 

-o-

When Sam returned to the kitchen, Dean had laid most of their gun supply on the counter and was making sandwiches. Which Sam thought was a pretty neat little summary of their lives. A rotund calico whose white facial markings lent it the appearance of a big grin sat on the counter beside the shotgun, washing its face with one paw. "How's the kid?" Dean asked, not looking up as he swiped peanut butter across a slice of bread.

"He'll live," Sam replied bluntly. "I told him about Dad."

"Was it a healing experience for you both?"

Sam leaned against the far wall and watched his brother for a moment. "We can't all repress like champions," he answered. Dean was looking for a fight, he could see it in the set of his brother's shoulders; any other time Sam would have risem to the bait or shut his mouth up tight and developed an ulcer like God intended. Right now, though, he had tears clinging to the underside of his jaw.

The butter knife spread peanut butter smoothly then moved on to a new slice. Sam sat down in a chair by the table, suddenly very tired.

"Took a look around the place," Dean said in a conversational tone, like this was any other day, like they weren't sitting in a decrepit church with their long-lost _brother_ in the next room. "Darryl wasn't kidding, this place is like a Fort Knox of the demon world. It musta taken years and five different religious orders to bless the front door alone."

"Uh-huh. And the blood splatters?"

"Took the EMF meter up and down the hall. Readings weren't strong enough to worry about, but there're definitely echoes of something in there." Strawberry jelly went across a slice with practiced speed.

"Might be a good idea to hole up here for a while, then. Until we're all in one piece again." Dean made no reply and Sam sighed, hauled himself upright. "Come on, man, let's check you out."

"M'fine." He slapped two slices together, set it aside, moved on to the next pair.

Sam stood at his brother's elbow, watching his jerky movements and trying to phrase this carefully. "Dude, we just did a three-day ass haul from intensive care. Your badass status is assured." He paused, then added quietly, "C'mon, Dean. I wanna know you're okay."

"And what, you can't just take my word for it?" Dean snapped. There was no venom in his tone, however. He put his hands on the counter and sagged over them, slumped between his shoulders. The calico paused in its cleaning and meowed at him.

Sam's stomach fluttered with worry, but in the next heartbeat Dean pushed away and went over to a chair, opening his shirt as he went. He'd been wearing straight flannel without an undershirt since leaving the hospital; it still hurt for him to lift his arms above shoulder-level. Underneath the shirt, his chest was a mess of white bandages, criss-crossing where the demon had stabbed deep. A few were stained red and Sam's stomach went right back to fluttering. 

Dean sat down heavily and fixed his eyes on the back door, where yet another cat sat watching them. A muscle twitched in Dean's jaw, though whether from pain or anger, Sam couldn't tell. He swallowed and opened up the med kit, pulled another chair over to face Dean. "Guess you're not gonna have any topless modeling shoots anytime soon," he cracked weakly, leaning forward to carefully peel away the bandages.

"You're hilarious," Dean grunted around his tight jaw.

Bit by bit the bandages peeled back and Sam's stomach went from fluttering to outright churning. The deep slashes and gouges ran jaggedly from side to side, haphazard and without any precision. It hadn't _needed_ precision: it'd slashed deep into his chest, nicked a lung, ruptured his spleen. Dean had almost drowned in his own blood before the doctors had made their own incision, a straight, neat line down the center of him. 

That line, more than any other, raised the hairs on Sam's neck. They'd been in emergency rooms a bunch of times, had had various casts, splints and yes, stitches; but they'd never been _opened up_ before and Sam shivered, thanking God that he hadn't been there to see that. It would have broken him apart to look through an operating window and see someone reaching into Dean's _insides_ , taking apart everything that he was and exposing the ruined, destroyed shreds.

"You've torn out a couple stitches," Sam murmured, trying to keep his hands steady and failing.

Dean didn't look away from the back door and the empty pasture beyond. "So put 'em back in." His voice had no inflection.

Sam found needle and thread in the kit and began adding his own small stitches to the doctor's. Dean's skin flinched every time the needle bit in, but his face remained utterly still.

A faint scuff of feet in the doorway behind Sam made him pause a moment, but Reese said nothing. Sam finished the stitches and bit off the thread with his incisor, then doused a bit of gauze with iodine and dabbed carefully wherever blood leaked around the edges. Dean did hiss softly at that, but only a quick tremor across his lips, barely there.

When the needle and thread and iodine were put away, Reese said shakily from his place by the door, "Well, I kinda feel like a pussy."

Sam chuckled, more out of a need to release the tight clench of his own chest than actual amusement. He rose to his feet and looked over at Reese, who appeared a bit green around the gills.

After a moment he realized that he was staring. It wasn't intentional; his brain was just so startled to find something so familiar, yet so different. Reese stared back, maybe for different reasons, it was hard to tell. Sam had caught a sense of this earlier, but had been too distracted by Reese's injuries. Now he got the strong impression of a mind behind walls, inscrutable and damaged… the kind of blankness that he saw in the eyes of trauma victims, but hardened by time into something a lot more brittle and lasting. And that, too, was familiar.

Sam thought, _He's a little taller than Dean_.

Reese thought, _He's a little taller than Dad_.

"If you're both done playing nurse," Dean said gruffly, buttoning up his shirt, "I made sandwiches." He got up and went to the counter, flopping the sandwiches onto paper plates. Sam ducked his head and loaded up the first aid kit.

-o-

Reese stayed in the doorway watching them: it was a bit like ballet (though he was already pretty sure that one or both would shoot him immediately if he brought up that metaphor). They moved around each other in concert, flawless with familiarity. 

It made him feel unsteady, uncertain, and for more reasons than one: they seemed… _loud_ , somehow, in their movements and voices, though neither stumbled nor spoke up. The church had been quiet for so long that it felt strange to have these _people_ , his _brothers_ , moving around his kitchen. Making sandwiches, no less.

He felt their eyes on him more than once and he wondered what they saw. Dirty-haired kid with his cats and Big Room of Crazy; hell, the whole town had thought he was some kind of psycho. "So," he began, stepping into the middle of their intricate dance with his big feet and clenched fists. "I guess you guys never knew about me?"

Dean stopped short and glared. Fortunately, Reese was already standing against the wall; he didn't embarrass himself by taking an involuntary step backward. He did have to fight the temptation to throw salt or run; he'd tucked the steak knife in his back pocket – just in case – but they both probably still had their guns. And there were two of them, a pair of gun-toting ballerinas against one clumsy kid.

It was Sam who answered, glancing quickly at his older brother's face as he did so. "No. Dad never told us. He just… a family friend sent us here."

Reese licked his lips and shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "Don't feel too bad. I only met him a year ago and it took my mother dying to bring him around."

That got their attention. "The demon?" Dean inquired sharply.

Reese waited for pain, for the rush of memory and that looming meteor of emotional destruction; nothing came. He could remember what her skin had smelled like as it burned; he could remember the way her mouth had moved as he'd stared upwards, like she was still trying to talk to him, even as she went up in smoke. 

"Yeah," he said after a moment, distant to his own ears. It didn't really… _hurt_ anymore. More like there was something in him that had just gone absent, checked right the fuck out and left a gap. 

These two hardass guys with guns, who shot first and asked questions later, both stared at him with torn-open eyes.

"Sorry," Dean said.

Reese blinked. "Yeah." Their scrutiny unsettled him – people seeing him, _noticing_ – and Reese moved to cover the surge of bone-deep anxiety. He went to the back door to scoop up Christ. "He showed up at the hospital. I'd never met him before that… and I don't think he knew about me at all." He stole a quick glance at their faces; Dean's jaw relaxed a hair but Sam kept on staring at him with such seriousness. "Anyway… he said that he was going after it. The demon. That he was gonna hunt it down, and until he did, none of us were gonna be safe. So, he brought me here."

Sam's eyebrows drew together. "You've been here a year? In this church?"

Christ bumped Reese's hand, looking for attention, and he rubbed her head absently. "Most of the year. Yeah. The church is safe, demons can't get inside it."

"And you've just been… living here? Alone?" Sam sounded incredulous.

"Not totally." Reese tapped Christ's nose with the pad of his thumb. "These guys came in spring to keep me company. If you mean Dad, though, he… came back a few times, with food and stuff, but the last time was before winter, last year."

"Jesus," Sam murmured.

Dean moved sharply, some instinctive protest that came out in his body. "Well, what else was he supposed to do? Kid's not a hunter, doesn't know how to shoot a gun." He turned back to the counter and reached for the sandwiches there, then winced and touched a hand to his side, to the horrible wounds Reese had seen there.

Reese's irritated words _Hello, I'm right here_ died on his mouth. Sam, though, did not have the same mercy: he straightened and pursed his lips at his older brother. "Dean. C'mon. You can't seriously think that this was a good idea."

Dean sighed heavily and did not seem at all surprised that Sam wasn't cutting him some slack. 

-o-

The three of them took their sandwiches on paper plates out to the sanctuary. Sam brought in sleeping bags that Bobby had piled into the back of the truck and laid them out on the wooden pews. Dean sat on his, chewing and staring up at the evening sky through a hole in the roof.

Nearby, his little brother asked – _Christ_ – his _other_ little brother, "So where are you from, Reese?"

Dean resolutely took another bite of the sandwich and studied the colors of sunset. "St. Paul," the kid answered. "My brother and sister are still there."

"You've got siblings?" Sam croaked, mouth thick with peanut butter.

"Oh, don't worry." Reese coughed a laugh. "They're not… I mean, he, John, he was only around a couple of weeks. My mom was married to this other guy, Harry. Gina and Tim are his. My ex-step-dad. Whatever." He snorted in the dark, clearly giving his opinion of good old Harry.

"Did you always know? I mean, that Harry wasn't your real dad?"

"Yeah. You saw those pictures in my room? Mom was a photographer… she always said she'd quit nursing and go pro, work for some magazines. She never did, though." He paused. "She gave me that picture of him right after she finally got divorced. Told me, 'this is your _real_ dad.'"

Sam huffed a little breath of amazed laughter, shaking his head. "Wow. That must've been intense."

Dean sat to one side and watched them both. The kid, he'd decided, was about three steps from batshit crazy: he had the Ted Kaczynski hair and a weird flit to his eyes, like he couldn't look at either of them for too long without getting nervous. Dean had seen the look before on kids who'd survived something they never should have been exposed to; he'd also seen the expression on Sam's face, the gentle one that drew out even the most awful stories. The kid was responding to it instinctively, because Sam was _that_ good. Or the kid was that desperate for someone to talk to.

It occurred to Dean that if the kid were anyone else in the entire damned world, he'd feel bad for the poor guy. Unfortunately the kid was who he was, and Dean made no attempt to join in the conversation.

It got darker and colder in the church, leading the kid to joke, "Yeah, you shoulda been here in wintertime," in a voice like shattered glass. Then, with the sun gone down and night curling at the edges, he finally told them about the library, the lady, the girl, and two demons that he trapped and starved to death in the hallway. 

When he got to the last part, Dean swung his legs over the side of the pew, listening to how their eyes sank into their skulls and the one had eaten the other. There wasn't any _life_ left in the kid's voice, just this hollowed-out whisper that rasped in the air. He'd sounded the same way when he talked about his mom.

The blank monotone only unraveled at the end, when Reese asked, "Is he really dead?" That was about all Dean could stand and he got up to walk out of the church like a fleeing groom. Behind him, Sam murmured a litany of comforting words, directed at Reese.

Outside, the stars had sparkled to life while below, Alberta's lights shone in the near distance like little beacons of civilization. They'd have to get out of here soon. Between their father's visitation at the diner and the stories about demons in the hallway, this place was well known to their enemies. They couldn't stay long.

He said the last bit aloud to Sam, who had come out to join him in the doorway, staring out into the night.

"We have to take him with us," Sam replied, his voice thick.

"And do what with him, Sam? Kid doesn't even know how to shoot a gun."

"We're not leaving him here, Dean. He's our brother."

Dean's whole body flinched like he'd been struck. "I didn't mean… we won't leave him. Maybe take him back to St. Paul?"

"He's our brother," Sam repeated dully.

"I _know_ , Sam," Dean shouted in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder into the darkened church. "But what the fuck do you want to do? He's not trained, he hasn't seen the things you and I have! We can't just hand him a gun and a lighter and say 'welcome to the family.' This world… the demons, they'd rip him to shreds and you know it."

Sam gazed out in the direction of Alberta's faint lights, silent. Dean turned away, touching a hand to the gouges on his chest.

-o-

Dean and Sam spent a cold night in the sanctuary, sleeping bags zipped up to their ears and noses frozen where they poked out. Reese went to his small, insulated room and the cats, but lay awake for hours before getting up and creeping back out to the church. Crouched on the floor beside the hallway to the rectory, Reese listened to the soft, wheezing snore that Sam made in his sleep, and Dean's constant, restless shifting. He had this weird feeling that if he went to sleep on the same small cot in the same small room, he'd wake up to the same small emptiness of himself, alone, and the arrival of his brothers would be a dream.

Or that they'd take off without him

Having actual _people_ around again put Reese in a constant state of low-level terror: not counting his two demon prisoners (and he laid awake at night trying not to), Reese hadn't seen another human being up-close in five months. He felt huge and vulnerable, a walking target. The dull throb of pain from his shoulder and the memory of Sam's hazel eyes turning cold and calm as he pulled the trigger didn't improve that opinion. 

Earlier, Sam had handed over some Vicodin and assured him that it was a clean hit; Reese, trying to make light of it, had asked, "You make a habit of shooting your family members?" 

Sam's face had gone white and his eyes had darted over to Dean, whose mouth had tightened. Reese had looked between the two of them uncertainly, not at all sure he was understanding the things he was understanding.

He hadn't hung it up beside the snapshots of his siblings and father, but Dad had shown him a picture of "My boys,"before he had left the last time. Just a quick Polaroid of the two in their late teens: Sam grinning wide and toothy, Dean with a sly smirk, looking like, _Can you believe my dorky little brother?_ Reese had looked at it maybe a hundred times in the last year, convincing himself that they were real, that they had survived something like this and still had it in them to smile. Two boys around his age, and they'd been strong enough. 

Now, with the real things here in front of him, he didn't recognize their faces at all. It wasn't just due to their wounds, either: there was something fundamentally changed. Sam's mouth didn't look like it remembered how to grin; Dean barely spoke to Sam and hadn't said a word to Reese since that morning.

The one time Dean _had_ talked to Sam, Reese had listened from on the other side of the sanctuary doors. _They'd rip him to shreds_ , Dean had whispered vehemently and Reese had curled his left arm around himself.

Now he chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring up into the church's empty darkness and listening to his brothers breathe. 

Fine. Fucking fine. Dean was right, Reese wasn't ready for demons, possessions, or battles between heaven and hell; he'd gotten this far on luck and sheer blind stubbornness. Well, no more of that. He'd been hiding out like a little kid under the covers for way too long; the thing that had killed his mom was out there and wearing his father's body, no less. And if Dean and Sam weren't willing to take him with them, then he'd just have to go it alone.

Which meant that he needed to find some way – trickery, most likely – to get one or both of them to give him enough info, and weaponry, to get started on his own.

He flexed his right hand, feeling the pang that it sent into his shot-up shoulder. Right. Time to grow the fuck up and quit being a scared little baby about things. He had a job to do. 

Chapter 8: In Which Sam and Dean Both Have A Word with Reese.

Dean had never felt short before. Okay, he'd never felt short around anyone except _Sam_.

His father loomed over him and Dean shrank. The hand he raised in defense was small and delicate: still his own body but regressed to age twelve or so, when he'd still had skinny little-boy arms. Helpless. "Dad," he moaned and tasted copper in his throat. "Dad, please. Don't kill me."

A sneer twisted the familiar lips. _Worthless_.

"I'm sorry. I swear, I can do better. Please, Dad – don't don't don't…"

 _Shoulda been me. Sam should've saved me, not you. You're not gonna do the job right. Couldn't even save_ me.

"Dad, I tried – "

 _Don't make excuses._  
  
Dean's voice died on his lips as his father put a hand on his chest and began to press. The breath went straight out of Dean's lungs and he fought desperately for oxygen, flailing like a little insect pinned against the wall.He was tiny, just a helpless little kid with collapsing lungs and no one was going to save him now.

Somebody was screaming; the sound echoed off the church walls. Dean clapped a hand over his mouth, but the sound went on and on. Realization hit him like electricity and Dean surged upright, kicking his sleeping bag away. The stitches in his chest protested furiously but he had other concerns.

"Sam, wake up!" Sam had fallen too the floor still tangled in his own sleepware. He thrashed and though he'd stopped screaming, he was breathing like a steam engine and whimpering in the back of his throat. The small, painful sound made Dean's skin crawl and he dove forward. "Sammy, come on, man, wake up."

Sam heaved against his hands, a harsh intake of oxygen in his throat. He curled into Dean's grip, shuddering.

"He okay?"

"Jesus!" Dean had no idea how Reese had gotten that close so quietly, but it made him jump about a foot. He could barely see the kid in the dark, just a pale blotch of face that looked a little too ghostly for Dean's tastes. "No, he's not fine. Get a light."

Sam groaned, "Oh my God…"

The broken, turned-inside-out tone of those words sent another shock of _Sam hurt oh hell no_ ; Dean's hands moved in search of his brother's face. "Sam. C'mon, dude, wake up."

"I'm awake," Sam said thickly, too thick, and Dean's fingertips encountered moisture on Sam's face that was sticky and smelled like copper…

" _Reese_ ," Dean bellowed. "Where's that fucking – "

"Right here," Reese snapped, somehow back at Dean's elbow. Something clicked and a flashlight beam pierced the darkness around Sam. Dean had an instantaneous flash of Sam's white, ravaged face, pupils engorged and refusing to shrink in the light, before Sam cried out and flung his hands up.

"Get it off him!" Dean snarled and wrenched it out of Reese's hands. Reese drew back lightning-quick, his hand diving into one pocket. _Where he kept the knife_ , Dean noted.

Sam sat hunched over, his long back nearly doubled in half. "Oh, God," he moaned again. 

Dean took a loud, shaky breath and pointed the flashlight at the floor. The reflected beam cast a half-light over all of them, illuminating their legs more than their faces. "Dude, look at me. Sam, come on."

The blood, thank God, came from the stitches above Sam's brow and nowhere else; he'd torn them open in his roll off the pew. Dean dispatched Reese again for the medical kit and gently eased Sam to sit upright. "Swear to God, man, we've gotta start duct-taping you to something… maybe get Velcro underwear, stick you in place."

One of Sam's pupil-black eyes slitted open. "Kinky, Dean."

Even lame banter still felt reassuring. "Well it's either that or we get you one of those hanging bat things."

"What?"

"You know, that thing that Bruce Wayne had. _Batman_. Michael Keaton, hanging upside-down from his feet." Sam had torn out three stitches; Dean used the cuff of his sleeve to gently wipe blood off Sam's eyelid. "Dude was a freak: he had Sharon Stone in his bed and he went over to hang from that thing in the corner like a bat."

"It was Kim Basinger," Reese said from the dark.

"Do you have hover boots or something?" Dean snapped once he'd righted himself.

Reese held out the med kit; he still looked pale in the half-light and his eyes were completely unreadable. "I know all the squeaky floorboards. It was Kim Basinger in _Batman_ , not Sharon Stone. Is he okay?"

"I'm fine." Sam put his hand up, probing at the bleeding stitches. Dean smacked him away. "Just a nightmare."

He kept his gaze on the ground and his eyes away from Dean's when he said that, though. Dean immediately knew better.

-o-

The next day arose sluggish from its bed, not even bothering to push aside the cloud cover. Sam's eyes burned with dryness and lack of sleep: after the vision, he hadn't been able to rest for hours. Dean had stayed up with him at first, but eventually curled up on the pew beside Sam's legs, body folded like a child with his arm as a pillow. The wood was hard and unforgiving, but Dean had been known to bed down on concrete and sleep like a baby.

Sam rubbed at his neck and groaned quietly; his last good night of sleep had been in the hospital. One of the nurses there, a woman named Dinah who'd had the softest hands, had found him a spare bed not too far from Dean's room. She had to drag him away from Dean's bedside, but, as she put it, "When he wakes up, you're gonna need to be strong for him and you can't do that if you're barely awake, honey."

Dinah had been in his dream last night. His hands had strangled her throat, made her eye bulge. Sam had felt her pulse beating frantically against his hands – his own hands, but not his own, not controlled by his desperate mind.

Then his head had risen up and he'd seen his father's leering, yellow-eyed face in the mirror. Grinning back, winking to him. _Hi, Sammy_.

Sam leaned forward, holding his stomach, but the wave of nausea passed without incident. _Why her?_ Why go back and attack an ordinary nurse at the hospital? To torment Sam… but there was more to it than that. It was cutting off aid; taking out people that knew them or would be willing to help. Sam didn't believe for a second that the demon had any intention of keeping the truce it had offered back in the diner; it had just wanted to parade their father's stolen face around. It was toying with them, throwing as much shit as possible at their heads.

Which included the sudden appearance of a little half-brother.

Logically, Sam could puzzle it out. He'd been four; Dean had been seven; that would have been shortly after John first started hunting. Sam remembered very little about that time, but he could imagine how messed up John must have been by… everything. Losing Mom, having to take care of two boys on his own, on top of discovering the world's true darkness. And, objectively speaking… John had been an… _attractive_ guy. Sam squirmed at the thought; demonic possession, he could handle. Thinking of his father as a sexual being was just… no. Still, Dad was a _man_. And all men – yes, he could think it, dammit – liked to have sex. 

Yeah, Sam could definitely puzzle out how something like this could have happened. Didn't make it any easier to stomach.

Dean shifted slightly, hovering close to the edge of wakefulness. Sam didn't think it wise for the two of them to share a morning heart-to-heart: if _he_ was having a problem digesting the news of Dad's… misadventures, then Dean could be counted on to either start yelling or shut down completely. And Sam didn't want to push it to that, not yet. Dean had been hit bad the last few days, first with Dad's death, then his demonic resurrection; he'd hold it together as long as he could but Sam knew there was a breakdown somewhere on the horizon.

Besides, Sam's stomach was responding to all the turmoil by deciding that it was hungry.

Wind whistled through the rectory hallway, brushing past the bloodstained walls. Sam paused to study them, remembering Reese's story last night. Two demons had been here, trapped until their bodies had starved. It made him think of Meg, and the sticky trickle of blood that had dripped from her mouth when he'd finished the exorcism. He'd as good as killed her, even as he set her free; at least that had been fast, though. From what Reese had said, this had taken months, in which those two people had been trapped inside their own bodies, powerless, watching them waste away.

Cold air blew across his face. Sam shuddered and looked down the hallway into the kitchen. 

The back doorway hung open and Reese stood there as if he'd just come in from a jog: his long hair was damp with moisture and his threadbare T-shirt clung to his back in sweaty patches. He had one arm braced against the top of the doorway and he was leaning out slightly, face tilted towards the sky.

Sam stilled instinctively: after a long life of spying on his father and brother, he was accustomed to looking for those precious moments when they didn't know they were being watched. Guilt surged at the unfair advantage, but not strong enough for him to stop or turn away. 

Reese's shoulder obviously still hurt him, he had that arm tucked in close to his body. It must have hurt like hell to jog; the skin around his eyes looked tight and drawn and Sam doubted that he'd slept much better than he or Dean. In the sunlight, Reese's blue eyes seemed colorless. He breathed into the air and a faint mist appeared around his mouth; he stared up at the sky. The small action felt so unbearably heavy that Sam shifted his feet, ashamed to have seen it.

Reese heard him and snapped around instantly. All the deep, aching sadness and youth dropped from his face; distance and that same determined blankness reappeared like a hard mask snapping into place.

The change was so sudden and complete that for a moment Sam stared, taken aback.

"Morning," Reese greeted, his voice low.

"Hey. Sorry if I spooked you."

Reese's eyes slid away and he moved to the kitchen counter. "You want something to eat?"

"Sure. Whaddya got?"

"Mini-Wheats?"

Sam smiled faintly, remembering childhood debates of great import. "Frosted or unfrosted?" 

A frown tipped Reese's mouth. "Frosted. 'Course."

Must be genetic. "'Course."

They sat down at the small table with a bowl each. Sam's leaked a little and milk formed a ring around its base. Reese shoveled a spoonful into his mouth then wiped at his chin. "Dad told me that your girlfriend got killed."

It amazed Sam how that kept hitting him, a fist right in some weak point to his gut, and spoken so bluntly it wounded him all over again. He heard the pause in Reese's chewing. "Yeah."

Reese's chewing resumed after a moment, but then he swallowed and said quietly, "It's, uh… it's been a while since I've talked to anybody."

There was an apology there; Reese met his gaze very briefly, uncomfortable and too skittish for anything more. Sam thought of half-wild animals and reminded himself to not show his teeth. "Yeah, the demon killed her. That was about a year ago, too. I was at college… Stanford, in California."

Reese looked up sharply, skittishness easing. "No shit, you went to Stanford?" At Sam's nod, he whistled lightly through his teeth. "Wow. How the hell'd you pay for that?"

"Got a full ride scholarship."

Reese's awe ratcheted up a notch. "Daaang. So that's where the brains in the family went."

That last bit caught them both off guard a little and they paused, then rejoined. "What about you? Were you planning on going anywhere?" Sam heard the past tense and winced inwardly, but didn't know how else to put the question.

Maybe Reese heard it too or maybe he was just shy, because he looked down at his bowl and shrugged. "I dunno. Yeah, I guess. Maybe a JC somewhere local, stay close to home until Tim graduated."

Sam watched his face, remembering that moment by the door. "Tim's your younger brother?"

"Yeah."

"We could, um… we could take you back there. Take you home, to your family." Reese's pale face twitched but he did not look up. "Do you want that?"

Reese didn't answer for a long moment, eyes on the tabletop. Then he whispered, "What the hell would I tell them? That I killed two people?"

It sounded so lost and hopeless that Sam had to physically restrain himself from reaching over to this young man, this younger brother of his. Christ, weren't they just a pair? A year each spent drowning in their grief… except Sam had had Dean. Reese had an empty church and five cats.

Sam stared at his little brother's drawn, hardened face and thought, _God, Dad, what the hell were you thinking?_

-o-

Dean woke up to a stiff back and cold feet, and Sam was nowhere around. That brought a half-awake surge of adrenaline, heart pumping before he could talk himself down from it. They were inside the church, nothing could get in here, Sam was fine. He was probably just eating or taking a piss or braiding hippie-hair with their little… person. The kid. Dad's son.

 _Jesus_. Dean kicked off the sleeping bag and shoved his feet in his shoes, teeth chattering at the chilled air. The new stitches Sam had put in his chest pulled and protested with his movements, but Dean gritted his teeth and lurched upright. It was preferable to lying there _thinking_.

He paused long enough to peer down the hall to the rectory and caught sight of Sam's shaggy head in the kitchen, bent over the countertop; maybe the tightness in Dean's chest had nothing to do with stitches, because it eased the moment he could place Sam's location.

 _They don't need you like you need them_.

He strode quickly back down the aisle and out of the church into the pale morning, squinting against the sun and _not_ remembering his dreams.

The truck had a fine sheen of frost across its hood; Dean _hated_ Minnesota. A gust of wind made his teeth jackhammer even harder, so he leaned into the back and rifled through duffel bags until he came up with a couple of sweaters. Those he pulled over his head with much awkwardness and wincing; the duffels he hoisted over his shoulders, stitches be damned.

If they were gonna be here for longer than it took to get drive-through, then he needed something to _do_. A moving target's harder to hit and there were other things chasing Dean right now beside the demon. Like the scene back at the diner, when that fucking bastard cocksucking thing had paraded his Dad, his _Dad_ around like a trophy. Oh, yeah, there were plenty of things closing in on him, chipping away at the numbness of shock. _First stage: denial_. He couldn't run from them forever, but if he could hold on long enough… he had to hold on long enough. To get Sam safe.

Sam still hadn't emerged from the rectory, and the two sweaters were doing their work to make the cold bearable; Dean dumped all but one of the duffels on the church's wooden floor, then headed back outside. On the truck's hood, he spread out his kit and laid the guns one at a time on the cold metal. 

It was simple, methodical, regular. Even half-frozen, stitches in his chest and beaten half to hell, Dean felt himself steady, felt the tightness in his lungs ease. His cold fingers moved across the tools and gun parts, ghosting along their edges reverentially. _Take care of your guns and they'll take care of you_. It was such a simple scenario, the most basic setup of mutual benefit… I clean and polish your back, you shoot down whatever's trying to take a chunk out of mine.

He lost himself so easily in the gun-cleaning. It was always the fastest way – next to sex, substances, or a 100-yard sprint – to oblivion and whatever shit he wouldn't, couldn't, or didn't know how to say aloud.

It took him a while to realize he had an audience and a while longer to find the kid, perched unexpectedly in the second-story window sill of the church's front, boots dangling from his long skinny legs. "How the hell did you get up there?"

As if in answer, the kid gripped an edge of the elaborate trim around the front door and swung himself down, feet braced against ancient wood and fingers clinging. He came down hand over hand like a monkey and Dean watched incredulously as the kid trusted his full weight to century-old carpentry. He made it down, though, leaping that last few feet to land beside the truck, then straightening to meet Dean's eye.

"Didn't have much else to do all year," he said by way of explanation. His eyes slid down over Dean's hands. "What's that?"

"It's a gun, kid."

Something flared and subsided in the blue eyes, hidden behind what Dean recognized as dogged determination. "I know it's a gun. What _kind_?"

"Desert Eagle," Dean snapped, then stepped back and waved over the entire set. "SIGs, Smith and Wessons, pair of Remington shotguns, and the Winchester 21."

The kid cut him a glance sideways. "Like you guys."

Dean paused, surprised to have the demarcation lines drawn for him. _You stay on that side, we're over here. No touching our side._ It was a hell of a lot easier to think of this guy as just another victim of the demon, collateral damage along the road to Hell, rather than... "Yeah. Like us."

He watched the kid edge closer until he stood near the truck's left headlight. "Can you show me?"

"You wanna learn how to shoot?"

Another sideways look, layers at work beneath the surface. "I think I'd better."

That was a damned good point, Dean had to concede, yet he still hesitated; he covered the pause by sliding the Desert Eagle apart, then back together. It went smoothly, pieces clicking in that beautiful way that Dean loved. This, he could fix, take apart and put together and have control over. 

Beside him, the kid watched his movements like he was memorizing them, which he might well be. It all felt suddenly familiar: Dean could remember a time when he'd stood beside the kitchen table, barely able to see over the edge, and watched his father's hands put a gun together in one fluid symphony. His own fingers had felt so tiny when John had guided them around the gun's parts but he'd held on with a boy's stubbornness, so aware of his father's gaze and determined to please.

The kid looked at his face and Dean moved without thinking, holding up the gun between the two of them, muzzle pointed to the ground. Best to do this right. "Desert Eagle's too big and pricey to start out with… you only crack this puppy out when you really, really don't like something and wanna blow it to bits." He laid it carefully back on the hood and picked up one of the Smith and Wessons, held it the exact same way. "Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. Standard issue for cops; 8-shot revolving chamber." Guns, he could do: Dean could talk guns, cars, and baseball all day without breaking a sweat. He popped out the chamber and the kid came around to watch over Dean's shoulder as Dean took out one of the bullets and popped it back in. "Pretty basic, good firepower, but reliability's an issue. And sometimes you don't wanna be fumbling around with bullets, tryin' to reload them one at a time."

"I take it you had that problem before."

"Yeah, I mighta had that goddamned problem before. Listen," and he got up in the kid's face, suddenly furious and not at all sure why. "You can't beat a demon with _this_. They're not corporeal, they're not _mortal_ … gun's not gonna stop them. They'll come at you sideways and tear you apart, and the best damn thing you can do short of running like hell is to exorcise them. And even _that_ ain't a permanent fix; they just a new goddamned host."

The look in the kid's eyes was hard to read. Defiance, maybe. Not moving all through Dean's rant, just watching his face until he was done. That wall of blankness was built high and deep. "So what good are all these guns?"

"For when you don't have time for an exorcism," Dean stated flatly, and didn't look away from the kid's eyes. "For when you gotta put a bullet in an innocent person."

That made the kid blink just a little; he dropped his gaze to the gun in Dean's hands, then passed over all the others, one at a time, deliberate. When his eyes came back up, something had been settled in the kid's head. "I starved two people to death for a couple of months. If I gotta choose, I'd go with something faster."

Dean cocked his head and eyed the kid, remembering that time in sixth grade when Sam had gotten _really_ into "The Lord of the Flies" and had wandered their little apartment with a loincloth and wild eyes. At least this little punk wasn't wearing a loincloth, thank God, but Dean had always taken it as a cautionary tale: young boys, when left on their own, are liable to start plucking out tongues.

The kid saw him looking and his mouth twitched; it was too small a movement for Dean to tell if it would have been a smile or frown if brought to full term. "Look, just so we're clear? I don't give a shit whether we're related. I don't care if I've got your eyes or his nose, and I don't care about you."

"Wow," Dean snorted. "Bet you won Mr. Popularity in high school, huh?"

A jut of the jaw confirmed that. "You gonna show me the guns or what?" the kid went on tonelessly, unemotional and calm. "'Cause if not, you'll have to excuse me while I go find a board with a nail big enough to fight demons."

That surprised a low scoff of laughter out of Dean. The kid glared and Dean shook his head. "That ain't gonna work too well, either."

"Then show me something that does." 

Dean hesitated another moment, studying the bright blue eyes for signs of batshit craziness. He gave up once he remembered that he was Dean Winchester, son of John and brother to Sam. Crazy was relative. 

He traded the Magnum for a SIG. "Best gun you can go with is a SIG 226x5. Magazine capacity with .40 rounds is 14." He popped it out, showed the kid all those neat, shiny little bullets lined up in a row; then he deliberately turned the stock to show how the magazine slid into place, ramming it in the rest of the way with the heel of his palm. "It's on the heavy side, but in terms of reliability, accuracy, everything that counts, it's solid gold."

He stepped to the side, keeping the gun held out in front of them both, and met the kid's eyes. "Safety's on, and it's not cocked. Keep it pointed at the ground or you never touch it again."

The kid made all the beginner's mistakes: slid his palm up too high, where the slide would cut skin as the gun fired; automatically curled his finger around the trigger before Dean rapped his knuckle hard and made him keep the forefinger spear-straight along the gun's barrel; tried to curl his other hand around the butt of the stock instead of his wrist. His body hunched tight and the barrel shook slightly with the barely-contained force of his nerves. And they were there, beneath the surface, a slight unsteadiness.

Fortunately Sam had shot him in the left shoulder instead of the right; still, Dean could see that it hurt the kid something fierce, though he refused to let it show.

Dean grimly stuck to the basics, adjusting the kid's stance and making sure he wouldn't give himself a bloody nose if and when he did get around to firing. After about fifteen minutes of instruction, he made the kid replace the magazine with an empty one, and stepped back. "Practice standing."

The kid stared at him. "Just standing?"

"Yeah. Got to learn to stand before you shoot."

It took Dean a second to realize that they had an audience, and another second to find Sam standing in the doorway of the church staring at them with a dark, tight face. He turned around without saying anything and strode back inside.

The kid had spotted him, too. "I asked him to show me how a gun worked this morning. He didn't want to." The tone was mild, as if the kid were commenting on the weather or golfing. Meanwhile, he took the gun in hand again, curling fingers around his wrist. 

Dean watched as his little brother pressed chapped lips together hard and steeled himself, put one foot and one shoulder back, angled his elbow. He thought of children and fathers, and wondered what he'd just done.


	8. In Which There is A Most Unexpected Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://s211.beta.photobucket.com/user/stele3/media/Mordac_zps10af092c.jpg.html)

The gun – a SIG, Dean had called it – weighed less than two pounds. Logically, Reese knew that with a loaded clip it would be a bit heavier. It still felt lighter than he thought it should.

None of the cats liked it: when he took it back to his room and held it out for inspection, they sniffed cautiously at the cold steel, then edged around it to bump against his hands. Allah, the most determined snuggler and sensitive to Reese's emotions, hopped right across that tool of death into Reese's lap; the rest hung back, sensing his tension and uncomfortable with this strange new _thing_ in their midst.

Reese met Mordac's yellow eyes. "Whaddya think?"

Mordac blinked; he sat at the bed's furthest edge, not moving any closer.

"Yeah, I know. It's a little freaky, I guess." He stroked a thumb across the stock, leaving a smear of fingerprints; he'd have to remember to wear gloves, in case they ever attracted attention. "It's a SIG. Don't really know what that stands for, but Dean says it's really accurate and reliable."

Allah kneaded Reese's thigh with his paws, little claws pricking the skin lightly. He wasn't purring, though. Reese told him, "I can't shoot it until I learn to hold it right. He's gonna show me how, though. I need to learn how." 

Allah meowed unhappily and bumped his nose against the base of Reese's thumb, looking for reassurance. "Stop that," Reese told him sternly, and Allah flinched a little, staring up. "This isn't – it's not a game, you know? This is a serious weapon. I could kill people with this, I could kill _you_."

The cats stared at him and Reese ducked his head, flushing. "I didn't mean it like that. Just – it's serious. You have to be careful with this thing."

Mordac still eyed him, so Reese gently deposited Allah on the mattress with one hand and rose, going out through the kitchen and down the steps. The world outside was gray, a heavy cloud cover that spoke of winter's approach.

He had to get out of here. Wherever else he went, Reese knew that he had to leave Minnesota. If he passed another lifeless, freezing winter here, he'd take this gun to his own head and… well, he couldn't _shoot_ himself, it was empty, but he could give himself a hematoma or something, dammit.

He'd thought that having a gun in his hand would feel powerful, but the moment Dean had held it out to him, Reese hadn't wanted to even touch it. Something about the action of holding it in his hand made him shake. His teeth sent against the involuntary shiver and he put one foot back, relaxed his shoulders, bent his elbow slightly, and gripped his wrist. Bones ground together underneath his fingers and Reese grimaced; he needed more pushups. 

Yahweh, the largest calico with the white-marked grin on his face, sat in the back doorway twitching his tail in Reese's direction. "No comments from the peanut gallery," Reese informed him.

"All right," Sam said from nearby. 

He put his hands up when Reese spun around. "Sorry, didn't know you were out here."

Reese gulped in a lungful of cool air, his hearts racing. "Likewise." The gun hung awkwardly from his fingers, stupid and useless. "You, uh, want something?"

Sam's eyes fell on the gun and went dark again. "I see you got Dean to show you."

His fingers tightened on the gun handle instinctively, possessive. "Yeah. I needed to learn. And he hasn't shown me how to shoot yet, just to hold it right."

There was a struggle in Sam's eyes, then he said, "Can you – show me what he taught you?"

Reese obeyed, and Sam hesitated only another moment before he did a full circuit around Reese, looking him up and down critically. The bluish bruise on Reese's knuckle made him laugh softly. "Keeping your finger straight?"

He was _now_ : Dean had made a point of periodically checking in with Reese throughout the day, mostly to rap his knuckle hard whenever Reese forgot himself and curled it around the trigger, which was often. The knuckle was swollen and discolored by now and Reese scowled. "Why does he keep doing that?"

Sam shook his head. "It's something from Dad. He taught us both how to use guns, and the Marines taught him. They were trained to keep their fingers straight next to the triggers until they were in actual combat. Kept them from accidentally shooting the other guys in formation."

Reese ran a thoughtful thumb over the gun's hammer, pulling it slightly before letting it fall back into place with a faint click. "He was a Marine?"

"Yeah." Sam finished his inspection and stood in front of Reese, studying his face. Reese kept it lowered, eyes on the gun. "Reese. You don't have to do this."

"You said that this morning."

"I meant it. Listen – " Sam stepped closer, all sincere eyes and hunched shoulders. "I get that you want revenge, okay? I've been there, trust me." A bitter, aching laugh. "I've seen what it can do to people. I saw what it did to our father every day of my entire life. My _whole life_ , Reese. He got completely obsessed and wrapped up in this _crusade_ , couldn't take one minute to see what it was doing to Dean and I. And in the end… it killed him. He never got what he was after, and he died for it."

A bit of sun poked through the clouds and glinted on the gun's barrel; Reese tilted it back and forth, watching the play of light.

Finally he said in a low voice, "So, what? You think I should just go home and pull the covers up over my head? Is that what you did when your mom died?"

When Sam didn't answer, Reese looked up and met his stormy, stricken eyes.

The gun hung between them, blinding in the sun.

-o-

Combined with lack of sleep, his conversation with Reese served to sap Sam of all his energy. He felt drained, drifting, exhausted but incapable of staying still. And the look in Reese's eyes stayed with him: that closed-down, implacable gaze that brought up Sam's hackles at the same time it made his hair stand on end.

He did a circuit of the church, checking out the runes, symbols and wards, and taking notes down in the back of Dad's journal. It'd probably be worthwhile to etch them on Dad's truck.

Reese was right about one thing, they couldn't just run away and hide somewhere. The demon and its children were still out there, and thriving, if his dream-vision last night was any indication.

In the church doorway, Sam set the journal down and sat beside it, his head slung low. _Christ_. It had all seemed so close to being over. They'd had the Colt, they'd found the demon's pattern of attack, they'd beaten it to the next target child… and then just like that, everything had shattered.

They'd been so _close_. It was hard not to feel cheated of their freedom from this. Of their lives.

And Dad… being used as some kind of goddamned _puppet_ , his body walking around out there butchering people while the demon lived inside, a parasite in its host.

The truck door slammed like a gunshot and Sam jumped, then ducked his head and swiped a quick hand across his eyes. Dean came around the truck's other side, his sweater smudged with grease. "Hey," Sam greeted hoarsely, knowing that his nose must be bright red and cringing inwardly.

If Dean noticed his momentary breakdown, he made no comment. In fact, he barely looked at Sam and did not reply, just bent under the truck's hood and went back to tinkering with its guts. Grateful for the reprieve, Sam wiped his face of evidence more thoroughly, then rose and went to his older brother's elbow. "You're right to give Reese the gun. I mean, better that than he run off and get himself killed, right? I'm – sorry I didn't help."

Still nothing. Dean bent low across the engine, adjusting things that looked fine. Sam frowned and leaned a little closer, trying to see his brother's face. "Dean?"

Dean's spine straightened slowly, and his eyes when he finally turned froze Sam cold. Hard, flat, accusing.

"So," Dean said, deceptively calm, "Dad was obsessed? Completely screwed up his life?"

 _Shit_. "You heard – "

The hood crashed as it slammed it shut and Dean was suddenly right in Sam's face, all narrow eyes and tight lips. "Yes, I fucking _heard_ your little family history lesson, _Sam_ ," Dean spat. "You got no right talking about him like that."

After a lifetime of arguments and verbal showdowns, Sam's feet planted automatically. "He was my dad too, Dean," he replied in a low voice.

Dean scoffed, deliberately misinterpreting Sam's statement. "Jesus Christ, you're still harping on how bad he supposedly screwed us up? _Now_? The man's not even cold in the ground, Sam, and you just can't _wait_ to tear him down?"

Sam's reach had extended a lot, a late growth spurt that had hit him sophomore year. Apparently Dean still hadn't quite factored in the added inches, because he didn't dodge back far enough and Sam's punch landed on his jaw. Dean staggered, hand cupping his chin, then stiffened as Sam crowded up close, looming every bit of new height.

"I watched him die," Sam hissed, a second wave of grief making his throat tight. "I sat there with you bleeding all over my arms and I watched Dad die. _You think I want to go through that again?_ "

Just as fast as it had come, the anger went out of him and Sam slumped like a deflating balloon to lean against the car. "I don't wanna watch this kid die, Dean," he whispered brokenly. "I don't wanna watch _you_ die. You're the one who said it, that we're all we've got."

He didn't wait for Dean to process that, just turned and stumbled back towards the church, pausing only to scoop up the journal on his way across the threshold. His pew-bed was no more comfortable than it had been last night, but Sam stretched out on his back anyway, hands laid atop the journal on his chest.

He was exhausted, but not tired. Grief and anger had him strung out past any endurance and he was pretty sure that if he stood up, he was just going to crumble back down again.

The scuff of boots brought Dean, who sat beside Sam's head. Sam closed his eyes, not out of avoidance but because he really couldn't be expected to see tears on his brother's face and _not_ fall apart himself.

When Dean spoke, though, his voice was even and steady. "Wish you'd saved him instead."

"Don't you fucking dare," Sam murmured. "I told you this already. Don't."

"What the hell are we gonna do about him, Sam?"

"Which one?"

Dean paused a moment, then swore, understanding. "Jesus. The kid."

"You're the one that said we couldn't just hand him a gun and a lighter. You've done one; why don't you give him a Zippo and see what happens?" There wasn't any rancor in Sam's voice; he wasn't trying to pick a fight, just make a point. 

Dean moved away, rising to pace the ancient floor. "Look, I'm not – he's not our brother, okay? I'm mean, yeah, maybe he _is,_ but he's not, all right? I'm not gonna get all touchy-feely with him."

"We can either take him or leave him, Dean, and if we leave him someplace I got a feeling he'll go after this thing on his own, and get himself killed." Sam finally opened his eyes, craning his neck to look at Dean, whose mouth had gone tight and angry.

"Yeah," Dean murmured. "You know he talks to the cats, right?" he added, almost as an afterthought, a half-hearted condemnation. He knew when he was beaten.

Sam laughed softly. "Yeah. I noticed. You're the one who gave him a gun."

"It's not loaded yet," Dean grumbled, then came over and slumped down beside Sam, leaning their shoulders together. 

-o-

Dean didn't so much wake up the next morning as quit trying to sleep. His skin tingled with cold and God only knew how the kid had passed most of a winter here. 

Sam sat upright on his church pew, arms folded across his chest and head drooping. He looked like a bum, with his long hair greasy and unwashed and Bobby's Army surplus sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders. Dean laid his own bag carefully across Sam's lap and studied the clenched lines of his little brother's face, wondering how it always came to this: him sitting on his ass while someone else did the fighting. Dad and his hunt; Sam and his visions.

This kid. Just one more thing that Dad had left him out of, hadn't trusted him with. _You need them way more than they need you_.

Dean could cut his own throat, tear his hands off at the wrists, do anything… and it would never be enough. He couldn't reach inside Sam's head anymore than he could turn back time and be the one in the front seat, _if I'd been in the front seat when the truck hit, Dad would still be here…_

Sam would undoubtedly thought of it as self-hatred or something boo-hoo tragic like that. In Dean's mind, though, it was logical: Dad would have known what to do. He would have pull Sam up by his shoelaces and gotten him someplace safe; he'd have a plan to save their butts. Whereas Dean was flailing, and likely to get them all killed.

All of them. Dean rubbed at his crusty eyes.

He went out and paced beside the car, hands on his hips. They definitely couldn't leave the kid here anytime soon. Judging from the number of times Dean had seen him practicing with the gun, the little punk had every intention of using it sometime soon and Dean groaned at the thought. Yeah, just what they needed: some obsessive, loose cannon with a gun and a blood vendetta.

Dean didn't follow that thought too far.

So, options. They could try taking him back to the rest of his real family, in St. Paul. Bad idea: Dean thought of the kid's disheveled appearance, knowledge of demons, and cat-conversations. Yeeeeah, he'd get locked up in a heartbeat. They could train him up and leave him someplace, but he'd probably end up getting himself possessed and circling back around to take them from behind…

Dean pivoted on one heel and stopped in mid-pace.

His father stood twenty feet away from him.

Adrenaline surged so hard that Dean – _Christ, you don't have a gun you're walking around OUTSIDE you fucking idiot Sam inside safe taste the iron in your blood please Dad_ – went against all training and froze for a moment, muscles clenched tight under an instantaneous, bone-deep panic attack.

His father didn't move, either, just stared at Dean with wide eyes – _not yellow, brown brown Dad_ – and then Dean realized Dad's mouth was moving, fast and frantic. No sound came out, not a whisper, but it went on and on. John was sheet-white, unnaturally pale, and getting more visibly desperate with each passing second.

Dean reeled backwards, hand reaching out for aid and finding support in the truck. He choked around his own panting breath.

The sound released something in John because he paused in his silent ranting, sucked in one huge, inaudible breath, and bellowed, " _Run._ "

Dean ran. Back into the church, down the aisle to Sam's side, yanked him upright, grabbed at the sleeping bags, duffels, get their stuff and go go go…

"Dean? Dean!" Sam's hands grabbed at him and Dean realized that he was hyperventilating loudly.

"We gotta go," he blurted, gripping at Sam's hand until his brother winced. "We gotta run."

"Where? What happened? Dean – "

" _Sam_. I can't – we gotta – just _please_. Please." He wasn't getting enough oxygen in his lungs, the walls felt like they were closing in. He could feel his heartbeat in his palms, his stomach, a steady pounding against the inside of his skull screaming, _run run run run_... 

Sam stood his ground. "What about Reese?"

"Jesus, Sam, we gotta go _NOW_." He shoved everything haphazardly in his duffel, socks flying, fuck it, they'd buy new ones…

"Dean, we can't just leave him here!"

"Christ, why the fuck not?"

" _He's our brother._ "

"Then go get him!" Dean half-screamed, barely able to hear above the frantic beat in his head. "Sam, we've got to _run_."


	9. In Which They Run Like Hell and Have A Realization

Getting out of the church involved convincing Reese and gathering cats, by which time Dean was beside himself. " _Leave them!_ " he shrieked. Sam had a feeling that he meant _all of them_.

Reese looked positively murderous, but broke away to dive after the last cat, then dumped it in a cardboard box with its mewling brothers and sisters. Then he stood right in the doorway of the church, staring at the truck and Dean and Sam.

Sam had no way of convincing him, didn't even understand himself beyond the fact that Dean was _panicking_ , and that was enough to get him into the truck without asking a single question. Dean wasn't helping matters: he had a gun out and was staring around them with wide eyes, head darting in every direction like he expected something to rise out of the ground at any moment. 

Sam had no idea what to say to this boy with the meowing box, to convince him that he needed to _go right now_. Leave the sanctuary that had protected him the whole last year, for unknown reasons, with his two long-lost brothers, one of whom had shot him two days ago.

"Reese," Sam said desperately, feeling the force of Dean's fear like a physical presence in the world behind him, and Reese ducked his head to hide behind his stringy blond hair.

But he came, miracle of miracles. Reese sat in the back, his box of cats clutched in his lap and his eyes wide. Behind the wheel, Dean chased 60, then 70, then 90 on these back roads, skidding around curves while Sam made little noises of anxious protest, bracing his hands on the dashboard but saying nothing out loud. Dean's face was white and set, eyes the size of saucer plates. He threw them as far as he could as fast as he could, giving no explanation.

He slowed when they reached the interstate, merging into traffic with other pickups and semi-trucks. Sam tensed instinctively, too rattled by Dean's mysterious panic to ignore the rush of huge wheels and metal nearby. Too close to their previous experience, and Dean felt it too: his jaw jumped and twitched as he guided them around the 18-wheelers. It'd be so easy for one of them to swerve suddenly, whether directed by demon or cruel accident… but Sam pushed that thought down, sealed it up with the other hundred thousand boogeymen that he'd collected over the years. Until it was right in front of them, nothing was a threat: there was no use jumping at shadows until the shadows took form. Or smashed into the side of you.

Reese, unsurprisingly, hadn't learned this survival trick yet: he stared out the window with wide eyes, flinching away when they passed a fellow motorist.

None of them spoke. They all understood the urgency, though only one of them knew its source.

The tank hit empty around noon in South Dakota. A highway gas station brought them to a standstill, finally, where Dean leaned his forehead against the wheel and closed his eyes. Sam had only barely recovered his voice enough to murmur, "What the hell, Dean?"

Dean's throat worked for a moment before he got out whatever was strangling him. "I saw Dad. Back at the church. I saw him right outside and he told me to run."

Sam gaped at him, voice vanished into the ether. In the back seat, Reese twitched sharply. "What? The – "

"No. No, not like that." Dean leaned back and scrubbed hands over his face, fingers tight like they were trying to hold something in. "I saw… _Dad_. Real Dad, not… his body."

Sam's stomach dropped. "His _ghost_?" he choked.

" Sammy – he was right _there_ , outside the church. Like, he just popped up there all of sudden, and he told me to run. Screamed it at me." He sucked in a breath. "I don't know why. He just said it, and I…" _Followed orders_.

"Ghost?" Reese asked from the back seat. He looked back and forth between them incredulously.

Dean got out of the car. Sam almost protested, not liking the thought of any distance between them right now; but Dean didn't go far, just to the pump.

Reese was staring, so Sam took in an unsteady breath and leaned across the seat to dig out Dad's journal. "There's a lot more than just demons in the world. There're ghosts, werewolves," he paused and turned a page, tapped it with a fingertip, "wendigos, poltergeists… all kinds of things."

"And you guys think that Dad," one of the cats escaped the box with a lunge and Reese caught it in midair without even looking, "is a ghost now?"

"It's possible," Sam answered hoarsely. Then he sighed and flipped to the appropriate page. "Here."

Reese took the book carefully, hand cupped around the edges to hold in the loose pages. He curled the other one around the escaped cat. Sam left him there to decipher their father's scribbling on revenants and deceased spirits, and climbed out of the truck after Dean.

Dean stood leaning beside the gas tank opening, one hand on the pump handle and the other rubbing the skin of his forehead. Sam circled around to lean his weight slowly onto the truck beside his brother, hands in his pockets, eyes watching the numbers on the gas pump spin around and around.

"It fits, doesn't it?" Dean said quietly after a moment. "He died violently, with all kindsa unfinished business. His bones aren't at rest. Hell, they're being used by the one thing in the world that he hated most, walking around in his skin." He broke off and tilted his head back, staring sightlessly up at the clouds.

They stood side by side for a moment.

"What?" Sam asked in a sigh.

"Are you sure…" Dean began, then stopped and restarted. "I mean. Dad. Are you sure he…"

Sam curled his shoulders in on himself, eyes closed. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep crushing hope and reliving it over and over and over again. No, this had to stop, right now. Pull the band-aid off at once.

"When it possessed Dad's body," he told Dean, "it came over and stood just outside the salt circle. It took a knife out and cut his throat." Dean blanched but Sam pressed on, not willing to ever do this again, ruthless to get this _done_ , to take away whatever hope Dean had, because if Dean hoped then he might hesitate. "It wanted me to know that his body was dead, no matter that he was still walking around. Even if he survived the car crash, he's dead. Not temporarily trapped outside his body or something. If you saw him, and you're sure it wasn't the demon, then it was his ghost."

Dean pushed away from the truck and walked out to stand beside the highway, his back to Sam. 

The pump stopped with a _chunk_ , numbers freezing in place. Sam took the handle out, screwed the tank cap back on, and didn't move beyond that. Either they would make it past this or not; that was pretty much up to Dean. 

Sam had made his choice and he'd chosen Dean. He didn't have any hope of Dean understanding why, but he could at least hope that it wouldn't go to waste, that Dean wouldn't get himself killed in some fit of guilt. Because Sam had put all his eggs in this one basket, the only one left, and if Dean went down Sam wouldn't be far behind.

The truck door on the other side opened and then shut. Reese cast a quick glance around the empty gas station, then moved to Sam's side. 

Sam told him, "We were all in the car together and the demon was coming. I grabbed Dean out of the back, saved him instead of Dad."

Reese absorbed that, then asked, "If you'd have saved Dad instead, would he have been pissed, too?"

Sam looked at Reese. His younger brother stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of an olive-green jacket; Sam recognized it with a jolt as their father's Marine gear. "I don't know," he said finally, slowly. "He was already pretty pissed at me… the demon had him before, and I… I had a chance to shoot him. To end it all."

Reese closed one eye against the sun and squinted at Sam, his hair blowing across his face. "And you didn't?"

"I would've killed him." Sam scoffed softly. "'Course, he didn't see it that way. He was chewing me out. I think…" He paused, realization seeping into his guts. "It musta been the last thing he ever said to me. How he was so pissed that I didn't shoot him."

Reese raised his eyebrows, casting a glance across the gas station towards Dean. "So one of them was pissed that you didn't kill him, and now the other's pissed that you saved him?"

Sam blinked. "Um. Yeah. I guess." He surprised himself by laughing just a little, quiet and sad. "Pretty messed up family, huh?"

They stood there for a while, the wind whistling in their ears. Away by the highway, Dean paced in the yellow-brown grass, his head down and his face distant, remote. Trying to find a way to pull himself together. Sam wanted so badly to go over there with him, to just be _close_ to his big brother; but he knew Dean wouldn't, couldn't allow it.

"Just for the record," Reese said, his eyes on Dean's distant form. "If I'm ever in trouble, please _do_ save my life and please _don't_ shoot me." A thin smile ghosted across his lips, barely more than a wry twist. 

It was the first time Sam had seen any sign of life on Reese's face beyond his cold determination. Sam felt himself responding to it, a little easing of tension that he desperately needed. "Shoot you again, you mean?" He tinted it with as much apology as he could.

Reese touched his shoulder, a wince of memory. "Yeah, that."

"Okay. Deal."

Another wry smile touched Reese's face. Sam noticed, for the first time, that he had a cat tucked into the front of his shirt; the smallest calico. It poked its head out, staring around with sleepy eyes. "Who's this?"

"Christ," Reese answered, his face softening. He touched the cat's head. "Stupid, I know."

He cut an absurd picture: a boy with strange hair, his hands cupped around the cat-shaped bulge in his shirt and leaning against the wind. Sam stared at him, the way his mouth moved in a whisper to the Messiah-named feline, and felt a deep, awful pang of sorrow.

-o-

They drove another sixty miles before stopping, and only then because one of the cats was sick on the floor in the back seat. "Jesus!" Dean snarled, smacking the steering wheel.

Reese clutched the sickly cat and glared at Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. "No, it was Allah and how would _you_ like it if some maniac threw you in the back of a truck and drove for eight hours? They've never even been in a _car_ before!"

"Well, today's their lucky day, 'cause they're never gonna be in one again," Dean snapped. "Next rest stop, we're leaving those things."

There was a breath of silence from the back seat. Then Reese's voice, low and icy, "Then you can leave me, too, motherfucker."

 _Gladly,_ Dean almost spat back, except Sam, surprise surprise, cut them both off. Played negotiator. "Take it easy, guys. C'mon. Dean… we've been going all day. _I'm_ about to start puking."

Dean almost called bullshit: Sam had been raised in a car, dammit. Any and all motion sickness had been weaned out of him at age three. Except Sam cut him a quick, sharp look, razor wire and heat.

Dean shut his mouth tight and started looking for a hotel.

The kid stayed mad, predictably, and when they pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a Motel 6 he flounced out of the back, heaving the box of damned cats with him, and stomped across the parking lot back towards the road.

"Reese!" Sam called out after the kid's retreating back.

The kid spun around, hair swinging in his furious eyes. "They're _my_ cats!" he hissed, holding the box close. "You don't want them around, fine, I'll leave, too."

Dean leaned against the truck's side, shaking with the aftereffects of adrenaline, exhaustion. Too keyed up to know when to stop. "Oh, that's mature."

Predictably that got another rise out of the kid, who resumed his grim march away. "Dean," Sam said sharply and cut Dean another warning look. "You mind getting us a room?"

Diversionary and separation tactics. Dean knew this perfectly well: he'd often asked the same thing of Sam in those turbulent years before Stanford, when he and Dad had been at each other's throats and one of them needed time to cool off. He would've snarled at Sam for handling him so blatantly, except one of them needed to be an adult and right now that pretty clearly was neither Dean nor the Cat Whisperer, who was standing on the edge of the parking lot staring out over grass.

Dean bit back his response and turned on his heel for the main office.

The middle-aged Midwestern lady behind the counter put down her People magazine and smiled. "Evening, son. What size room you looking for?"

Dean hesitated. The whole last year it had been doubles, just him and Sam… and before that, him and Dad. At least, when Dad had actually taken Dean on hunts as opposed to sending him off on his own – or disappearing. Dean had to mentally reach back to those pre-Stanford days, when there had been three of them: Dad in his own bed, Dean and Sam back-to-back on their own. Until Sam had gotten big enough to shoulder Dean off the side just by turning over; then Dad had started getting his own single. "You boys behave, now," he'd said with a wry grin. "It'll be nice to get some shut-eye without you two snoring like chainsaws." Privately, though, Dean had thought that it must be kind of lonely.

"Son?" The lady behind the counter leaned forward slightly, studying his face. "You all right?"

Dean swallowed and looked down, not at all sure how to fit in this new… person. He thought about the kid's narrow shoulders and counted through Bobby's money; there wasn't much of it, and all their cards had been left in the Impala. "Double, please," he said hoarsely, handing over the cash. Sam was just too big, Dean would probably have to be the one to share with the little punk.

Fuck that, he'd make the kid sleep in the bathtub with his damn hairballs.

The hairballs in question had emerged from their confinement: they crept around in the small field beside the motel, clearly unnerved by the complete change in their surroundings. Most stayed close to Reese, who crouched nearby with his hands held out for them to poke with their noses. Sam stood at his back, looming large and protective over them all. 

A few of the cats meowed at Dean's approach, crowding in around Reese's legs. Sam looked over. "We got a room?"

Dean grunted and tossed the other key to him. "Double. Couldn't afford anything else."

Sam raised his eyebrows, then frowned down at the kid as though the thought of space and logistics hadn't yet occurred to him. Which it probably hadn't.

The kid reached out and smoothed one of the calicos' fur; the cat arched into his touch, purring loud enough for Dean to hear. "I'll clean out the back of the pickup," the kid said quietly without raising his head. Sam must have said something to him… Dean couldn't help but wonder what. _Go easy on him, he really loved Dad._

The thought touched a nerve in Dean's stomach and he straightened. "Okay," he muttered, "but I swear to God…"

"Dean." Sam beat him to it again, another warning flash. Taking the kid's side, just like that.

"Fine. Whatever." Dean shoved his fists in his jacket and scuffed his feet against pavement as he made his way across to the motel room.

Dean hadn't bathed since whatever sponge baths he'd gotten in the hospital – which he hadn't even been awake for, and how unfair was that? Remembering the days of three people packed into one room had him hopping right into the shower, though. He'd be damned if he was gonna be the one stuck with cold water again.

The bathroom mirror gave him pause. Dean eased his shirt off over his head, hissing as the stitches in his chest pulled. There was a clear difference between the hospital stitches and Sam's, multiple colors of thread woven throughout his chest. Dean's hand drifted across his belly, gently prodding the stitches there. 

This morning he'd seen Dad. Or Dad's ghost, according to Sam. Whatever. He hadn't really looked all that different than he had in the cabin – except that had been the demon, not Dad. Dad had not been the one to tell him that he was proud of him; no, definitely not. The colorful stitches in Dean's torso were reminder of that. He had to think a moment before he realized that the last time he'd _really_ seen Dad was when he'd climbed into his pickup and driven away from them, bound for Lincoln.

Sam was expecting him to fall apart at any moment, casting him sideways glances and giving Dean plenty of space, like he needed more goddamned _space_ right now with the gaping hole where Dad used to be. Sam was waiting for him to snap, all the while shaking under the weight of his own grief. 

Sam was waiting on him, he was waiting on Sam, around and around they go, where they stop, nobody knows.

Sooner or later one of them was going to absolutely lose it, get overtaken by all the things they couldn't leave behind. Unless the demon got them all first. Dean wasn't entirely sure which option he preferred.

A door opening in the outer room snapped Dean out of his reverie; he switched on the shower.

-o-

Sam offered to watch the cats. "My girlfriend, Jess, she loved animals." He smiled with memory and stroked Christ's stomach; Christ was something of an attention-whore, and promptly rolled onto her back to spread her legs out for Sam's fingers. "We couldn't have pets in student housing, but she volunteered in an animal shelter near the college."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reese caught the funny look that Dean gave his brother. The older Winchester made no comment, however, just pulled a sweater over his damp head. Reese hesitantly lifted Allah off his lap and settled him on the bed beside Sam. "Yahweh and Buddha pick fights with each other sometimes, but they don't get real nasty. Christ is pretty mellow and Allah is a total wimp and Mordac…" He trailed off, eyeing the place where Mordac had impossibly balanced himself atop a lamp shade. "Yeah… Just, uh, don't let them go outside, and don't let them play with outlets, we didn't have electricity at the church so I don't think they know what those are. And, uh…"

Sam's raised eyebrows and smile made Reese trail off lamely. "Reese. Unless you're planning on staying in the shower for several months, I think we'll be okay."

Reese looked between him and the cats. "Right. Yeah. Okay."

Dean's shower had left the bathroom warm and damp. Reese peeled off his clothes and was suddenly not quite sure when he'd last bathed; a sniff confirmed that he smelled pretty ripe and Reese winced, wondering if the cats would even recognize his scent after he's washed it away with soap and shampoo.

A whole other set of problems presented themselves once he actually clambered into the shower. His hair, it turned out, was so incredibly matted that he could barely work the shampoo through it; the little bottle ran out and he resorted to using the bottle of Head & Shoulders that Dean must have left behind. The water was already lukewarm but at least it ran clear, unlike that cold, yellowish stream that had sputtered out of the rectory's shower and finally made him feel dirty enough on its own that he had quit showering at all.

There was some kind of rash on his side. It stung whenever the water hit it directly, so Reese angled his body sideways and slid the slippery bar of soap over his torso. Under the slick slide of his fingers, his ribs felt knobbly and exposed, way too prominent. The skin under his arms seemed raw and tender, and his shoulder ached. The wound there had lost its redness; Sam assured him that was a good sign, that it hadn't gotten infected. Those could be nasty, he'd said, especially without proper cleaning; but Reese had been lucky. His shoulder would be sore for a couple of weeks, but other than that he'd be fine.

Reese coughed a sudden sob out of nowhere. Dragged in breath to recover and coughed another. Clapped a hand over his mouth and stood swaying under the stream of bright water, struggling with himself.

Right. Okay. Nothing wrong here. Nothing to be a baby about. Just the sudden change in locations, the shock of being taken away from the church. He suddenly felt so vulnerable, naked in the shower without any protection. He wasn't even sure he'd locked the door, anyone or anything could walk in here and get him, and the _cats_ , the cats were all out _there_ …

He choked down the next sob, pushing it down into his stomach until he felt sick with the weight. His fingers shook when he pushed them back through his hair, but Reese gritted his teeth against the shaking unsteadiness at his core.

He was fine. With his brothers. One of them treated him like a child and the other like a leper, but they had guns and guts. Now if Reese could just master either of those things, he'd be fine. 

He put a palm flat against the wall tiles and held himself steady for a long moment. Pulled in a breath that rattled through the tightness of his throat.

Okay. He needed… to get Dean to teach him how to shoot. He needed to know more about demons: what little he'd glimpsed in the journal hinted at a whole wealth of knowledge that he needed to sit down and explore. He needed a haircut, and to put on some weight, 'cause right now he felt like a stiff breeze would blow him down.

He needed to feel safe again too, but something told Reese that was never gonna happen, at least not in this lifetime.


	10. In Which Sam Makes An Unsettling Discovery and They Get Some Help

Dean didn't actually end up having to share a bed: the kid dragged both of the sleeping bags in from the car and made a nest on the floor for himself. And all of the cats. No wonder he'd smelled so rank.

Sam handed over one of his pillows with a gentle smile, exactly the kind that he always used on victims and witnesses. "You gonna be okay down there?"

Reese lifted one of his shoulders in a loose shrug. He was wearing a shirt that belonged to Sam, but Dean's sweatpants; in body type he wavered somewhere between them, too long for Dean's stuff and too narrow for Sam's. He'd also used Sam's razor to shave the weasel-tail scraggle of a beard from his face, and looked five years younger from the loss. "I slept on the floor in that library for a couple months. I'll be fine."

Sam looked ready to protest further, which was Dean's cue to roll over and fall asleep immediately.

He must have been out for a few hours, but it only felt like seconds: in one blink, he closed his eyes, and in the next he snapped them open to find his father standing over his bed.

Dean's reaction time was faster than yesterday. He lurched backward on the bed, hand darting under the pillow for his knife there. John didn't move, didn't blink, just stood in all his pale, shadowed glory while Dean woke up the rest of the way.

Then he jerked his head towards the other side of the room and said in a too-deep, too-thin whisper, "Get Sam."

From the bed beside Dean's, Sam was making a desperate, wheezing noise.

Dean kicked the blankets aside and dove out of bed. His tired muscles screamed in protest, but Sam was _choking_ for air, arching and thrashing wildly. Dean caught a knee to the stomach and grunted in pain, but kept going, hands catching Sam's shoulder and chest. "Sam! Sam, what – wake up!"

From the floor there came a groggy, "Whazzat?" Followed closely by a distressed meow.

"Turn on a light!" Dean bellowed, struggling to find Sam's face and throat, see if there was something obstructing his breath. There wasn't anything there, nothing in his mouth or around his neck, yet the wheezing went on and on like something had ahold of Sam's lungs.

At least the kid woke up fast. He had the table light on in seconds then moved quickly around Sam's bed to switch on the small lamp between the beds. By then Sam's thrashing had eased somewhat; Dean knelt on the bed beside his brother, holding down his arms with both hands. Sam's eyes were open, but Dean could see the whites of them and Sam didn't seem to know at all where he was, or who was with him.

"Sam," Dean said, pitching his voice towards gentle. "Sam, it's okay. There's nothing wrong with your breathing, so knock it off. Breathe, Sammy."

Sam finally stilled all the way; he stared up at the ceiling and heaved in three or four shaky breaths. His eyes were still round and glassy, though, so Dean kept up a gentle, murmuring litany and eased his fingers until his touch became comfort instead of restraint. "It's okay, Sammy, you're okay. I'm here, kiddo, you're gonna be fine. Just breathe."

It went on longer than it should, long enough for Dean to figure out that this wasn't just a little nightmare or even a run-of-the-mill vision and when the fuck had that become standard operating procedure, anyway? At some point the kid circled around to stand at the foot of the bed – a cat tucked into the crook of one arm, Dean noted with an inward groan.

Finally Sam raised a hand to his face, closing his eyes and pinching the space between them. Dean touched his other arm lightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam croaked, sounding like he'd gargled gravel. "Yeah. Just a nightm – "

"Bullshit," Dean broke in. He sat back on his ankles without really giving Sam any room.

Sam sighed and dropped his hand, but kept his eyes shut. "Yeah," he whispered, weary and hoarse.

They all held still for a moment, Sam trying to get his feet back under him, Dean trying to get his heart back under control, and the kid… communing with the Cat Planet, or something. 

Finally, Sam took a steadier breath and blew it out slowly through his mouth, muscles unwinding into something like jelly. "I saw Dad," he whispered on the exhale.

Dean tensed. "You… did?"

"I saw the demon. It was outside the church. It – " His whole body shuddered and Dean outright abandoned his dignity in favor of grabbing Sam's wrist. "It knew I was watching. Like it could _see_ me…" 

The tension in Dean's body ratcheted up a notch. "Could it tell where you are?"

"No. That's what happened before, I think. Back at the church. It knew I was having a vision about it, and then it started… trying to get _inside_ me Dean, I think it used me somehow, like it could see in my head and know where I was. It tried to do it again, but I fought back this time and – fuck." He raised a hand back to his face.

Dean watched what little he could see of his brother's face. "You gonna puke?"

"Naw. I'm okay. Just – just gimme a minute." He tilted onto his side, curling slightly into himself. It was one of those gestures that Dean _hated_ : it left him helpless on the outside. What Sam needed was to pull in on himself and recover, while Dean needed to pull him open, see his eyes, listen to his breath. Sam's needs came first, though, just like the rest of their lives: Dean shifted back to the edge of the bed, far enough not to crowd but close enough to swoop in if Sam gave any sign of needing it.

From somewhere behind them, the kid said, "Vision?"

Something in the kid's voice made Dean turn on a dime, and something in his face made Dean's muscles clench up impossibly further. He was staring down at Sam on the bed with narrowed eyes and parted lips… the wary look of an animal, evaluating.

Sam, with his watery eyes and unsteady breath, completely missed the look. "Yeah. I have visions… have for about a year. I see the demon. The people it kills. Mostly when I'm asleep, but sometimes – sometimes when I'm awake, too."

A succession of things slid across the kid's face, each a little colder than the last. Connections being made. "Why?" he asked, low and carefully neutral.

Sam wiped a hand over his face and rolled onto his back, but kept his eyes shut. He'd have a migraine, Dean knew. He'd be weak. Vulnerable. "I don't know," he murmured, brow drawn together. "When… when it first took Dad, it told me it had plans for me. And all the children like me. I don't know what that means."

The cat in the kid's arm squirmed, trying to get free; the kid tightened his grip, body wound up. He raised his distrustful eyes from Sam to Dean and his expression changed instantly, mouth shutting tight and eyes widening.

Dean had no idea what showed in his own face and he didn't care. Distantly he was aware of holding onto Sam's shoulder again, his body hunched over his brother's. Like a different kind of animal, one bent on protection instead of attack.

From the bed, Sam murmured through the haze of his exhaustion, "We should move on, just in case."

Without looking away from the kid's eyes, Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "Up and at 'em, kiddo."

-o-

The next morning cut knives into Sam's eyes and danced ash across his tongue. He stood under the awning of yet another highway gas station with his jacket zipped up to his chin, eyelids closed against a bright dawn, and shivered. Last night he'd been split wide open by something with his father's face, felt things tearing at his dream-flesh and trying to claw their way inside. He'd seen horrors in his visions before, but only as an observer; this had been vivid, visceral, personal.

At first it had been like the one before: he'd been inside his father's body, crammed in there with the demon. He had been able to _feel_ It in there with him, feel its thoughts and emotions as surely as It must have been able to feel his father's.

What that said about Sam, he didn't want to know.

The demon had felt him, too, had laughed and pressed closer. _Hey, there, Sammy. Like the view?_ Laughed louder when he'd tried to pull away, to wake up and escape. Then the pushing had started, squeezing him into the smallest pocket of his father's body, pressing in further and further until he could feel it intruding on the corners, clutching greedily at his thoughts, his emotions...

Rape did not even begin to describe how utterly wrong it had felt. Sam put a hand over his breastbone and rubbed at the ache there, breath short and misting. Somewhere to his left a boot scuffed against pavement; Sam tensed instinctively, then forced himself to relax. "Didja get any sleep?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yeah," Reese lied. Sam had been too scared to fall back asleep himself, and had sat up front beside Dean, who drove them hell for leather across the entire state of Nebraska without stopping. Once or twice Sam had sensed – with plain ordinary awareness – Reese's gaze on the back of his head. Awake, then, and wondering.

Sam opened his eyes and Reese didn't look away fast enough to cover the fact that he'd been watching again. The tentative friendliness that had been in his eyes yesterday had vanished.

It hit Sam all at once, the full weight of last night, of what it might mean, of what he might _be_. It hadn't just been him _seeing_ the demon: he'd been possessing the dead shell of his father just as surely as the demon had, crammed in there beside it. A sick heaviness built in his stomach and he had to either start talking or start puking.

"I know. I know what you're thinking. Trust me, I've thought it all, too." Sam coughed a bitter little laugh. "I've had a whole lifetime to think about it, man. Why'd Mom die over _my_ crib, why did it come after _my_ girlfriend, why do _I_ have these visions. I'm connected to the demon somehow and it scares me so bad – that I might be… something." The words felt so huge in his throat that Sam practically gagged on them. He swiped a hand quickly over his mouth and glanced over his shoulder for Dean… couldn't let Dean know that he was thinking these things, couldn't let him see Sam waver when Dean was holding himself together so well. Dean had absolutely _worshipped_ Dad, been son and soldier and follower… 

Sam's brain jumped, made a connection of his own. _So it makes absolute sense that Dad's spirit would appear to_ Dean _, but not to me_. Oh, yeah, that fit. Dad must have known something, must have made some discovery about the demon, and Sam.

He didn't even realize that he was speaking out loud until Reese said, "What do you think it was?"

Sam closed his eyes against the sun and shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know."

Reese stared at him with all of the suspicion that had never been in Dean's eyes. Or their father's: if John had known or suspected something, he'd hid it well. 

There was a pause full of gusting wind and silence. Then Reese said slowly, "I asked one of the demons some questions, while it was stuck in the hallway. It wanted me to feed it."

Sam blinked his eyes open and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, their bodies… they can heal human bodies real fast. I don't know what the limits are, but from what you said, I'm guessing dismemberment and starvation are up there."

Reese absorbed that and Sam could practically see him file it away under 'useful information.' It chilled Sam to the bone to watch. "I asked it… why our family. Why us?"

Sam shuddered. Dean had emerged from the gas station and was striding across the lot towards them, his face dark and his eyes sharp as they darted between Reese and Sam. "What did it say?" Sam asked in a whisper, braced and hopeless.

"It said that Dad," and Reese's eyes were intent on Sam's face, "had something that belonged to them. To the demons."

 _I'm the thing. I must be. That's why, that's why_ …

"Hey," Dean greeted roughly, stopping as he reached them. Well, not quite: he stopped exactly _between_ them, and looked at Sam. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said from somewhere. His voice sounded distant. _Dad must have known. That's why he only appears to Dean. He knows that I belong to the demon._

-o-

They continued south. At the Kansas border Dean called Missouri. She'd been the only one that had answered Sam's initial phone calls, and she answered now, too – though she didn't bother with a hello. "Where are you?" she said instantly and Dean wondered whether her caller ID was digital or spiritual.

She met them in a rest stop north of Salina and wasn't alone: a tall, thick-shouldered black man sat in a station wagon on the parking lot's edge. He looked to be in his fifties but stood up from the car like a much younger man when they pulled up alongside; the guy clearly knew how to handle himself, from the way he met Dean's eyes with neither challenge nor reassurance. Both of them just evaluating.

Missouri stood in front of the station wagon, straight-backed, solid, her hands folded primly and her thick purse hanging from one shoulder. "Not the safest place, I know," she said as way of greeting. "Ain't much that is safe these days. This is my brother, Thaddeus, I'm stayin' with him. John never knew where Tad lives and I'm not tellin' you boys neither."

Dean wanted to bristle at the seeming mistrust but didn't quite have the energy. Sam, though, brushed it aside with a grateful smile. "Thank you for coming, Missouri."

She pursed her lips then returned the smile. "Seems like you boys could use the help, the way things are going." Her hands unfolded and took one of Sam's giant paws between them; Missouri's face changed immediately, tightening, her eyelids fluttering as she read him. "Oh, child," she murmured, slumping a bit. "You've been seein' your daddy?"

Sam tensed and his hand slipped from hers to shove into his pockets. Missouri looked up at his bowed face sharply, then turned to Dean. He stiffened, too, ready to evade if she tried grabbing _his_ hand. He might not be able to stop her from reading his thoughts, but he wasn't gonna goddamned _participate_ , not willingly, and especially not holding hands. 

Missouri saw it all, of course, and pursed her lips again. "You stop that, Dean Winchester. I know you been seeing your daddy, too."

He struggled then gave in. "Why?"

Her dark eyes studied his face and everything behind it. "His body's not at rest, Dean. He's never going to _be_ at rest until the demon releases him."

"Until we take it down, you mean," Dean growled.

She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at him. "Boy, you're not _taking it down_ until the both of you get yourselves healed up, and I ain't just talking about stitches!"

Sam stirred, raised his head. "Three of us. There are three of us, Missouri."

Which was just _perfect_ timing, because a car door opened behind them and the kid clambered out, all clunky boots and long hobo hair, cats hanging off his arms like refugees on the Titanic. Dean saw him all over again, Dad's straight nose and Sam's lantern jaw, and Dean suddenly wanted to tear him apart. _How dare he be here, how dare he look at_ Sam _like that, how dare he be in my goddamned_ car, _wearing Dad's goddamned_ coat… 

This… this made it so much more _real_ , for someone else to see him. To know, right away: blood will show, and the kid was John Winchester's fucking goddamned bastard son. 

The kid looked at Missouri. Missouri looked at the kid and raised a quaking hand to her throat. "Oh my lord," she whispered. "Oh my dear sweet Jesus lord."

-o-

The black lady said the name of Jesus right away and didn't seem at all confused or perturbed when Reese hissed a quick "Christus." She continued to stare at him with wide, almost frightened eyes, though. "What's your name, child?"

Reese glanced quickly at Sam and Dean, but neither gave him any indications: Sam looked pale and lost, as he had all day, and Dean looked semi-murderous. "Reese," he answered, then in an afterthought sharp as any knife, "Reese Miller." He saw Dean glance in his direction, just a brief flash. Reese didn't look back.

The woman cocked her head at him, eyes narrowed. "Using your momma's name… Kellie Miller." When his stomach filled with fear like a glass of ice water, she explained quickly, "I'm a reader, boy. Nothin' special or very powerful, just your garden variety psychic. My name's Missouri Moseley and I was a friend of your – of your father's."

She stumbled a bit at the end, looking over to Dean and jumping as if she'd been slapped. "Good Lord," Missouri said again, then visibly gathered herself. "There's a restaurant down the road a ways. I think I'm gonna need to be sitting down for this. I'd prefer liquor," she added, turning away toward Thaddeus and the station wagon, "but I'll settle for coffee."

Reese's stomach turned over and he swallowed. He loaded the cats back in the truck; the poor guys, they were all frazzled and exhausted and kept making breaks for the door. There erupted a brief but loud argument with Dean in which Dean started to say something like _would serve those hairballs –_ before Sam cut him off. Fortunately, it wasn't far to the restaurant, so Reese lay down on the truck's bed whispering to the cats, trying to calm both them and himself.

The restaurant wasn't far away. Reese stared at it, feeling his guts shake; he dawdled as long as he could, messing with the cats, making sure they were secure, before following his brothers inside to rejoin Missouri. 

The Sunny-Side Bar and Grill had a giant, smiling sun as its logo. This early in the morning, it was almost entirely empty except for them and a couple of waitresses. A few earl-bird patrons, sat in booths sipping coffee, only a few, just a few, but Reese's heart jacked up in speed when he saw them. Christ, this was dumb, they didn't have any protection with them or anything, just a couple of guns that Dean always carried. Reese swiped a saltshaker off a table as he passed. 

Up close, Reese could see the scars on Thaddeus' face and hands. His eyes spoke of having survived a hard life, deep fires banked and burning low. It would terrify Reese, just as Sam (and now Missouri) frightened him – fear of the unknown, invisible powers, things getting _inside_ – except for the deliberate manner in which Thaddeus gave ground. He followed them all to their table and then stepped away physically… and mentally. Reese felt him like a vibration in the room, a silent voice that made itself known and drew back to a comfortable distance. Thaddeus sat down beside the bar and Reese's shoulders eased down from beside his ears.

Of course then Sam sat down right next to him, and for all his gentle smile and attempts to reach out, Reese was _way_ more worried about Sam right now than anyone else. He shoved both his hand in his coat pocket and curled fingers around the knife that he'd found tucked under the back seat of the truck.

Missouri put a dent in that defensive strategy: she sat beside Dean on the opposite side of the booth and put out her hands flat across the table. "Gimme your hands, child," she instructed with a frown. "I wanna look you over." 

Reese had a feeling that it was less about looking him over and _all_ about how hard he was gripping the saltshaker in one fist and the knife's hilt in the other, right underneath the table. He stared back at her, unmoving, wide-eyed.

She met his gaze unblinking. "The Lord's right in my house, son, but I can understand why you'd be… a bit skittish. So I won't read you if you don't want me to; but it's not every day I get to meet another son of John Winchester." Her lips curled upward, colored with amazement as she looked at his face. "Lord, the things on this Earth."

She reminded Reese suddenly, unaccountably, of Mrs. Reid back in Alberta. They both had the same sternness to them, a sense that they'd come right-side up in any situation. That, more than anything else, was what made him slowly put his hands out, ready to snatch them back at a moment's notice and hoping that neither Sam nor Dean would notice the shiver and flinch that he couldn't hide.

If they did, they made no comment. Missouri looked at his palms, his fingers, turned them over to examine the backs; she touched him as little as possible. Reese had no idea what she was looking for, it wasn't like she could see blood on his hands or something, it'd been months since his two visitors at the church had finally expired – and Missouri looked up at that thought, chocolate-colored eyes studying Reese's face closely.

Reese yanked his hands away. His heart was jack-hammering, terrified all over again at having something alien inside his mind, scared enough to consider making a break right for the door or diving past Sam to smash through the window. Missouri understood that, too, because she visibly pulled back and redirected her attention onto his brothers. "Well. I take it John never told you two about this one?"  
  
Dean said nothing, but took to playing with the sugar packets. Sam said, "No. He told Pastor Jim, I think… and maybe Bobby. Not you, though?"

"No," Missouri sighed. "Not a trusting man, John Winchester."

"Found him in a church up in Minnesota," Dean broke in, hooking an elbow over the top of the booth. His green eyes slanted in Reese's direction then away, and he threw down the sugar packets. "Bit of an nasty surprise, y'know?"

"Dean," Sam said wearily, a broken record over the past few days, like the one word could work miracles and make them all a peaceful, hug-happy family. Or at least one that didn't privately want to tear each other's throats out. 

Dean's mouth twisted meanly, but he kept his silence. Sam said to Missouri, "It's still using Dad's body, but Dean – he saw _Dad_. Like, real Dad, yesterday morning at the church. His ghost, or – "

He broke off hurriedly as their waitress approached and Reese almost dove under the table. "Welcome to Sunny Side Bar and Grill." She was one of those plain, stick-thin blonde Midwestern girls, no doubt working her way towards a car. Her eyes widened as she took in Dean, Sam, and Reese. "Oh wow. Good genes."

Reese whispered, "Christus." She didn't seem to notice.

Dean was wound too tight, Sam was exhausted, and Reese was on the verge of leaping out of his seat to get away from her, so Missouri answered for them with a façade of Southern charm. "You can say that again, honey. I think we'll all want some coffee, please." She managed to sound both pleasant and dismissive at the same moment.

"Sure thing, ma'am, I'll just leave you these." She leaned across the table, spreading out menus among them. 

Her curly, straw-blonde hair slipped and slid down her back, blinding in the early morning sun; it was totally deliberate, and she slipped a quick, coy smile in Reese's direction.

The smile vanished completely when she saw Reese's face. She straightened hastily, murmured, "I'll be back in a bit with your coffees," and slid away. 

If anyone else had noticed this exchange, they gave no sign: Dean's mouth was tight and Missouri heaved a sigh, rubbing at her forehead. "It's not that simple and you know it, Dean," she said, answering some unspoken thought. "Whatever else any of you believe about your dad, he loved you boys. All of you." She glanced across the table, but Reese was a little preoccupied with scanning the restaurant staff. "It's more than just him bein' restless or his bones left unburied… you ask me, he's not gonna rest proper until his boys are safe."

A few new patrons came in and Reese tensed, hand sliding back into his pocket after the knife. They'd be cornered soon.

He missed the first part of Missouri's next sentence through the rush of blood in his ears. " – ground and stay there for a while." Dean started to protest, eyes furious, and she raised a hand against it. "Look at yourself, Dean. Look at Sam. You boys couldn't fight an everyday haunted house, the shape you're in. You want my advice, you find someplace quiet and hole up for a bit, heal up. Guess you can't go back to the church?"

Sam shook his head. "They've seen it. We took off from there after Dad," he cast a swift glance at Dean, "told us to."

Missouri nodded. "They wouldn't have gotten in, I helped bless that church myself and I know every rite laid on it; but they coulda cornered you there real easy. Waited until you ran out of supplies." It was her turn to glance quickly at Reese. He looked away, out over the restaurant, and realized with a lurch that the breakfast rush had started; more and more people were filtering into the booths and tables and he swallowed, felt his legs bounce on the balls of his feet, telling him to _move already_.

He saw their waitress again, flirting with another table. She pivoted on her hip and spun her hair artfully in the light; it flashed in his eyes and Reese thought – helpless mental connection like ping-pong – of blonde hair on fire. Pouring down on him and he inhaled the ash. Inhaled his _mom_. His throat spasmed a little in memory.

"So what do we do?" Dean voice came out at a growl. "You sayin' that we just let it _have_ Dad?"

"For the time bein', yes," Missouri answered, then continued sternly over Dean's sound of rage. "What are your other options, Dean? Can you think of any?" A pause as she looked around at all of them. As if any of them would suddenly pop up with a plan. "Then you best listen to me: go someplace quiet and stay put."

A herd of teenagers came in, on some kind of field trip: they all wore T-shirts emblazoned with, "2006 Interschool Speech/Debate Tournament Participant." A few had cheap medals hanging around their necks. They chattered loudly to one another and _Christ_ , they were passing right by the table. Reese couldn't help but shrink from them… so many fucking _people_ and Reese scooted all the way across the booth until he was practically plastered against Sam's side. It took a wrenching effort to straighten away and he could feel Sam looking at him. Dean and Missouri were arguing, but Reese couldn't follow the conversation anymore. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his fingertips and his lungs felt tight.

Tight like they'd been ever since he'd breathed in the smell of Mom's burning flesh. Blonde hair on the ceiling, going up in smoke, staring down at him even as he breathed in her death.

Someone was walking up to the table and oh, God, here it was, here came the blood and fire and why the _fuck_ weren't his arms moving? "Here are your coffees," their waitress said, blonde hair shining in his eyes. "Is he okay?"

Reese knew without looking up that she meant him. He was panting now, couldn't get a breath in without it flying back out. People could _hear him_ , were looking in his direction and oh, _shit_ why couldn't he breathe?

They were talking, mostly to each other. Someone grabbed his arm when he reached for the knife under the table and Reese started screaming.


	11. In Which Everyone Gets Pissed at Everyone Else

The next thing Reese remembered was the sting of sharp gravel against his knees and palms. He'd come to rest on the edge of the restaurant parking lot, puking his guts up into the grass; when he sucked in a breath a bit of vomit got caught and he gagged harder, back arching, fingers digging into the ground beneath him in search of something solid. He couldn't focus his eyes the way he wanted to; the world tipped around him and he swayed on his locked elbows, not at all certain which way was up.

 _It's all right_ , a voice said inside his head. _It's all right. Easy, child. If there was something here Thaddeus and I…_

He screamed hoarsely again, lurching away from the mental contact. Something inside him, worming its way deeper, burning in his lungs. 

Thaddeus stepped forward and put a hand on his sister's shoulders. After a moment Missouri went on aloud in a rolling, sing-song cadence. "I'm sorry, child. I'm so sorry. That was my fault, I should have known better. Head full of Sight and I was blind."

Reese coughed and spat. His throat burned, esophagus scorched by the stomach acid. A shadow lay over him and it had to be Sam from the size. "You okay?"

Reese tensed, hands digging tighter. Christ, he was huddled up on his knees, completely helpless, shivering and, and _crying_ , from the dampness on his cheeks. His arms and legs still hadn't recovered from their paralysis, but his breathing had steadied enough that his head didn't swim quite so bad.

The simple awfulness of the situation rushed in on him. He had vomit on his shirt, the knees of his pants.

Beside him, Missouri said in a completely normal tone of voice, "Sam, did I ever tell you about the time I baby-sat you and your brother?"

There was a long pause before Sam answered uncertainly, "No. You didn't."

"Ah, well. Long time ago." There was the faint smack and hiss of skin on skin; she was brushing her hands together, ridding them of the small stones and dirt that clung to her palms. She'd sat down right next to Reese, perched on one hip with her legs folded up underneath. "Your daddy was huntin' somethin' close by… one of his first, I think. Weren't many people knew him back then, and fewer that had protection charms all over her house."

Reese wiped his mouth and coughed, spitting into the ground again; Missouri took no notice. "Well, he drove right over and left you two with me. You were about two and one heck of a squawker; Dean…" She paused. "Dean was still pretty tore up about your mom. Wouldn't talk much, 'cept to you. And I had such a problem keeping him away from the neighbor lady."

"Why was that?" Sam asked, still uncertain but curious despite himself.

"Well, she was blonde, honey." Missouri said this like it explained everything. "He still didn't quite understand that his momma was dead, kept looking for her like she'd gotten lost or somethin'. I guess he saw the lady next door through a window or something and thought it was her."

Reese pinned his gaze on a single blade of grass. If he could keep that one blade still, maybe the rest of the world would follow suit and he'd stop imagining the waitress's blonde hair catching fire.

He croaked, "I'm not a little kid."

"No," Missouri answered readily, "but you saw your momma die, too. And you've been alone with that for a long, long time." She paused when Reese shivered, a full-body, teeth-chattering shudder. "It was too soon to take you out around people," she went on, softer. "I wasn't payin' enough attention. Dean's inside getting food to go for you boys, so why don't you just stay there for a bit?"

Reese couldn't move if he'd wanted to, which he fortunately didn't. Missouri and Sam both withdrew, leaving him alone except for the silent presence of Thaddeus away to his right, keeping watch. 

When the world had settled around his chosen blade of grass, Reese sat back on his heels and stared out over the rolling ground. God, he'd always hated Kansas, felt lost in its flatness.

He could leave them, maybe. Go… someplace. Not to Gina and Timmy, no, he'd rather be torn apart than bring something to their door; his death toll was high enough already and he loved them, _God_ he loved them so much in the memory of some other life, the last good thing he had left. There was no going back to the church, if Sam's visions were right and there were demons looking to corner someone there. Reese thought of sunken eyes and bones showing through skin, and fought down another wave of nausea. No. He wouldn't be caught, wouldn't be trapped. He knew how that ended.

So, someplace else? Away from Dean's so-far silent glare and Sam's well-intentioned watchfulness. That would be good; except then it'd just be him, out there in the wide, wild world. Dean hated his guts and Sam was kidding himself if he thought they were actually going to get along and be a _family_ ; but they both carried an air of invincibility around them. 

Then again, so had their father, so maybe it was an illusion. There had been more to him, too, a contained sense of despair and fatalism; a soldier with his feet planted for the last stand.

John Winchester had not expected to survive. For that reason he'd put his children from him in the hopes that they might; Dean and Sam with each other, Reese at the church.

The church had been closed up, claustrophobic but clearly delineated from the world around him. There had been rules: _take care of your salt lines, don't go outside_. Here, there was nothing but the open sky and flat ground, and all of it rushed in on him in a surge, left Reese huddling into himself like a wounded animal waiting for the blow.

He put his hands flat against the hard, rock-like soil before him and dug in again. _Fuck that. Shut up shut up don't look at the sky, don't look at the ground, don't look at_ anything. _You don't get to tap out now. You got a job to do_. Dirt pushed under his fingernails and Reese gripped harder to the point of pain. _You made this mess, now clean it up. You get what you need from those two, whatever you have to learn or take._

The pain steadied him, cleared his head a little. Right. No problem. He'd just stay away from public places; wasn't like he wanted to rejoin society anyway, no matter what Sam kept pushing for. He'd steer clear of Dean and keep a knife handy while he played nice with Sam, long enough to learn everything he needed to learn from the two of them and John Winchester's journal. Then he'd get this bitch done.

He owed that much, to the dead.

Reese took a steady breath, paused, and then cocked his head towards Thaddeus. _You listening in on me?_ he thought as forcefully as he could.

Thaddeus was looking across the parking lot at his sister, and Reese's brother; slowly, he looked around to meet Reese's eyes.

He smiled, a sad little tilt of his mouth, and shook his head.

-o-

They didn't go far from where Reese knelt on the lot's edge. Missouri released Sam's arm to rub her face. "Oh, lordee. And I thought _you_ boys had problems."

Sam tried on a little smile, but it felt wrong. "That bad, huh?"

"Oh, Sam. That one… he's all twisted up. Dug a little black hole for himself and I don't know what's gonna get him out."

"I'll take care of him," Sam swore.

"I don't doubt that, Sam, I don't. Trouble is, he's pretty well convinced that you're the demon's bastard child or something… and _no_ ," she looked sharply at Sam's face, "you're not. There ain't a drop of demon blood in you, Sam: you don't belong to it, no matter what they say. If you were, Thaddeus would've torn you apart straight away, he's got more of the Sight than I do. People like you, like the two of us… there's no reason why we exist that I know of, we just _do_. Taddy and I, we coulda had a demon after us but for whatever reason, it's got its plan set on the younger crowd. There ain't nothing evil in your bones, Sam. That's the God's honest truth and I'll swear to it on His name."

Sam swallowed, then asked huskily, "So why… I mean. How does it do… what it does?"

She sighed, long and low. "I owe you an apology, too, Sam. You asked me about this last time and I said I didn't know. I was tryin' to protect you, but that's no excuse now. You've got a gift, Sam, and that demon wants to use it."

"The visions? Why would it want – "

"That's only part of it, Sam, part of what you can do. You're like – " She searched. "A conduit. You see things like yourself, people that stand out. It could use you to reach all the rest… use your mind as a way to jump between places and people."

Sam made the connection. "In my dreams. It feels like… like it was reaching back."

"I know. I've known for a long time. Didn't tell you before because I didn't want you testing it, reaching out on your own…" She pursed her lips, her only additional apology, then went on. "You could jump between yourself and anywhere else, Sam; but that's the trouble about conduits, they go both ways. That thing could get ahold of you without ever having to be near you; so far your gift hasn't been strong enough, but it's been testin' you."

"The visions?"

Missouri nodded and her mouth turned grim. "If it gets ahold of you like it wants to, it'd be able to reach out and grab anyone, anywhere, easy as dreamin'. Like… like you're a power line, takin' it anywhere it wants to go."

Sam nodded again, the haze of sleepless fear fading a bit despite her warning. _I'm not a demon, I'm not evil. I'm not. I can do this._ "So what do I do? How do I stop it?"

Missouri pursed her lips and reached out, taking both of his hands in hers and holding them palm-up. She stared at them for a long moment as if searching for something. Then she sighed and let him go, hands gesturing emptily in the air between them. "You can't, Sam, anymore than you can change your own fingerprints. It's a _part_ of you; you can't just cut that out or put a stopper in your own head."

"I have to. There's gotta be something I can do, I can't just have it keep reaching back, it'll use me to…" _He's in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He's gonna tear you apart_. Sam's hands curled into fists involuntarily as the demon's words passed through his head. He might not be a bastard demon child, but he was still a danger to himself and everyone around him. In the cold light of day, he saw clearer: the demon had been inches away from possessing him last night, using Sam's power to reach back, or whatever. Take him and use him.

"I don't know what to tell you, Sam. I wish to God I did. If you were anyone else, I'd offer to train you; but the less you use your power, the better off you are. If you keep the connection weak, it may not be able to reach you."

Dean had emerged from the restaurant and was striding across the parking lot toward them, head down. 

Missouri whipped from concern to anger that fast. "Oh, no you don't. Don't you even think about it, Sam Winchester. You know damn well that one would come tearing after you no matter where you ran to; he'd get himself killed tryin' to get you back and wouldn't think a thing of it."

"I can't risk it. What if I – what if it gets me? I can't – "

"And what do you think," Missouri broke in, dropping her voice into a stern whisper to guard against Dean's approach, "would happen to him if you disappeared, or died? It'd kill him sure as anything else. You're all that he has left, Sam. Same for the other, though he don't see it that way yet. Now you listen to me and you listen good, 'cause I'm only sayin' this once." She took him by the front of his jacket and shook him. "Parents die; some of them die later rather than sooner, but they're always older than we are. Friends, lovers, they come and go. Children only show up if you're silly enough to think you're ready for them, but siblings? They're forever. They come before all the others and they stay after. Don't you _ever_ forget that."

As if he ever could. Sam knew exactly how much Dean needed him, had felt the constant attention like an itch between his shoulder blades ever since Dean had woken up in a hospital and realized that his world had narrowed down to _one_ while he slept. Or maybe it had always been that way and Sam had been too self-involved to notice. It had been both necessary and infuriating, back in the days before he'd left, to believe that Dean would be all right with just Dad, with needing just _Dad_ and his orders and his mission. Necessary because it meant Sam could leave, could find a place without the iron hedge of their father's mandates or the knowing complicity of Dean's obedience. Infuriating because Sam _knew_ that Dean knew better, could see the way their father's obsession twisted all their lives, and yet he went along with it anyway. Like nothing else mattered but their father's orders, no matter how insane or unreasonable.

And now Dad was gone. And yet _not_ gone, in several different ways. The thought made Sam sick enough that he considered joining Reese over by the grass, except that Dean was close now and Sam couldn't, wouldn't break. Dean was close to that same edge; Sam could read it in his brother's every movement, the tense way he held himself. 

Missouri touched Sam's arm lightly. "Give us a minute, Sam. It's Dean's turn now." When Sam hesitated she added, "I know, I know, child. He'd better not fall apart yet, though, you boys have all got a ways to go yet."

Sam swallowed and nodded, then stepped away.

He didn't go far, though. When Reese had first started freaking out in the restaurant it had been Sam that held him down; Thaddeus had started for them both and Sam had shouted, " _Dean, don't!_ " without so much as turning to look. Thaddeus had understood and stopped short immediately, tense but keeping his distance.

Sam had _known_ that Dean would reach for his gun, narrow-eyed against any perceived threat towards his one.

-o-

Missouri had her finger speared at him before Dean even reached her. "Don't you take that tone with me, boy."

Dean had a bag in either hand and that was pretty much the only reason he didn't deck her right there. "Fuck you. You wanna throw some darts at me?" He spread his arms, the movement made slightly ridiculous by the takeout bags. "Take your shot, everybody else is."

She scowled, which seemed to be her default expression around him. "I swear to God, talkin' to you is like talkin' to two separate people. I _know_ what you're thinking inside, Dean."

" _Stay out of my fucking head_ ," Dean shouted, and two heads snapped in his direction. Reese was the only one who didn't turn, probably still lost in his own little world. Thaddeus, though, reached under his jacket and Dean swallowed down a sliver of his fury, spoken from between his teeth. "It's none of your goddamned business."

She hadn't wavered in the face of his anger. " _You_ called _me_. Remember?" She caught his next thought and her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Oh, no. Uh-uh. I'm not takin' him."

Dean brushed past her. "Then I guess he's staying here in the parking lot. Poor kid."

"You think your dad would've wanted that?" and Dean turned on a dime. She met his glare in the middle. "He went through a lot of trouble, gettin' that boy to the church and keepin' him there. You think he would want you to just dump Reese somewhere?"

Dean gritted his teeth. "You don't know shit about my dad. Just 'cause you read his palms once doesn't give you the right…"

"No, I don't," she answered, shifting gears from confrontation to softness so fast that it threw him – which was no doubt what she'd been aiming for. "I didn't know your Daddy, not like you did. So what do you think he'd want you to do here, Dean?"

 _I don't care anymore,_ he wanted to scream. _I can't do it. He never loved me as much as Sam, I knew that, but I thought he_ trusted _me. I thought I had that much from him, but I was wrong and I can't do this with it. Without Dad._

He had to satisfy himself with merely thinking the words at her; Dean could feel Sam at his back and nothing, _nothing_ could tear those words out of him, not when he fucking _knew_ that Sam was waiting for the chance to leave. He'd said it, hadn't he? _Once this is all over, you're going to have to let me go my own way_. So that was another thing dead and slipped away: the hope that he wouldn't be left alone after the demon was gone.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

Missouri was looking at him and Dean shut his eyes for a moment, too close to the surface and wishing the ground would just swallow him up so he could be done. He couldn't _do_ this without Dad here, telling him what to do; all the things he'd been running from since waking up in the hospital were nipping at his heels.

Sam said, "Reese?" in a worried tone. Dean opened his eyes to find that the kid had snapped out of his spaz-attack trance: he'd made his way over to the truck and was leaning into the back seat, spine bent like a bow underneath Dad's jacket. 

When he straightened, he had the cat box in his hands, lid across. He wrapped his arms around it tight, stood for a moment swaying under the sky (and _talking_ to it, fer Chrissake), and then shuffling across the pavement back towards them all.

Dean was off like a shot, didn't want to give the little bastard time to reconsider. They passed at the midway point, Dean with his takeout bags and the kid with his mewling box of cats; in the space of two seconds, their eyes met and ignited into a flash-fire of naked rage and enmity. All niceties and blankness fell away and the kid glared at Dean with the eyes of a stone-cold killer. _Right back atcha, punk_ , Dean thought viciously, only too happy to keep walking right on by and leave the little bastard to his fate. Fuck 'im. _Fuck. Him. He doesn't just get to show up and be my brother; that's not how this works._

Dean made it all the way to the truck and had tossed the takeout bags in the back seat before he realized Sam wasn't with him. No, not even close: Sam was all the way back standing beside Missouri, arms folded, staring after Dean with a storm-black face.

It had always been this way: Sam made Dean pay for all of his worst fuckups simply by _existing_ , by drawing breath and being present to observe.

Or in this case, glare.

When his legs started to shake, Dean sat down on the edge of the driver's seat to watch the scene unfold. Jesus, the kid wasn't _leaving_ , he was handing the goddamned furballs to Missouri's brother like some kind of doe-eyed inbred toddler giving away free kittens outside a grocery store. Dean briefly considered starting up the truck and peeling out, driving away from all of them for the horizon.

Except. Sam was out there. Out _there_ , stubbornly unmoving. Dean clambered out and growled loud enough to be heard, "Get in the fucking truck, Sam."

Sam made no reply except to harden his glare, that classical _Sam_ face of pinched brows and tight lips. It had been Dean's downfall since age twelve; it always managed to make him feel like a tiny pile of something loathsome. He'd driven away from Sam before… that side of the road in Indiana. The bus station, when Sam had had a duffel on his back and a letter in his pocket.

Both times, Dean had been driving away from Sam towards _Dad_. Towards what Dad wanted, what Dad needed. And now there was just Sam, who was still glaring and refusing to get his skinny ass in the truck while that little phony _prick_ messed around with his cats; Sam, who was silently daring Dean to leave.

As if he could. Dean sat back down in the truck and gripped the steering wheel tight, his belly a pit of liquid rage. Outside, Sam dropped his folded arms and wavered, glancing over his shoulder for the kid. _Waiting_ for that punk, when just last night the fucker had stood over Sam's bed and looked like he wanted a nice ceremonial dagger for Christmas.

The bastard in question came back towards the truck with one of the furballs, the small black one, tucked into the front of his vomit-stained shirt. Dean groaned aloud but did not move otherwise. Couldn't. There wasn't any point.

There was only Sam, who fell into stride beside the kid. Dean caught the quick, narrow-eyed look that the younger boy gave Sam and thought, _don't you fucking dare. Don't you look at him like that._

They reached the truck without incident: Sam folded into the passenger seat and the kid scrambled into the back, smelling faintly of puke. Outside, Thaddeus held the frayed, sad box against his body and Missouri frowned at all three of them; as Dean watched, they turned away as one, the twin movements of siblings.

Dean cranked the ignition; the truck started with a roar. "Where to, genius?" he asked Sam.


	12. In Which They Come Up With A Plan, and Dean Has Another Visit

Reese had revised his earlier mission statement: he probably needed to keep his knife handy around _both_ Sam and Dean. Sam in case his demonic visions got out of control somehow; Dean in case the older Winchester made good on the silent threat in his eyes.

They headed west out of Salina, because Lawrence was east. Neither of the Winchesters voiced their objections, it was simply understood that the truck's windshield would be pointing squarely towards the sunset for a while. Reese didn't bother objecting, not that he thought he'd be heard. 

Instead he contented himself with methodically nibbling at the double cheeseburger and fries Missouri had told Dean to order for him (she must really have been psychic, she'd gotten them to put on extra pickles and everything) until he was sure that the food would stay down. And watching the show going on in the front seat.

Even sitting in a moving vehicle did not prevent Sam and Dean from performing a fresh rendition of their weird dance: they passed ketchup packets and straws back and forth without looking at one another. Dean held out his bun and Sam peeled the onions off his own burger, added them to Dean's. Dean drank all the pop out of his drink then dumped his ice into Sam's cup, giving Sam enough to chomp between his teeth for the next fifteen minutes.

All the while, they maintained a kind of chilly silence; Reese doubted whether they were even aware of this intricate, ancient dance they performed even while furious with one another. Reese hadn't missed Dean's attempt to leave him behind and honestly, Reese couldn't blame him. He stuck to his place as an observer, grateful for the opportunity to put himself back together after his gigantic panic attack.

So. He apparently had a problem being around people beyond the low-level anxiety that he'd felt ever since leaving the church; he'd had panic attacks as a kid, usually brought on by Harry's bouts of drunkenness, but this was the first one in recent years – and the first since this current adventure had started. If it was the first of many then Reese didn't like his chances very much; that, more than anything, had led to his decision to leave the cats with Thaddeus. He'd trusted the silent man instinctively, or at least trusted him enough to get the cats somewhere safer than they were with Reese.

Which wasn't saying a whole lot.

He understood his father a little better, now. John Winchester hadn't expected to survive this fight and neither did Reese: he'd taken a good hard look at himself, kneeling at the edge of the parking lot with his own puke on his clothes and still shaking in the grip of fear. No, he wasn't going to survive this. So he'd handed over his cats, signed them out of the train to ruin, and only taken the smallest of the litter because he'd grimly latched onto Reese's sleeve and refused to let go. The others had gone to Thaddeus willingly, even eagerly, and Reese shut the thought down before it could consume him.

Mordac poked at him with a cold nose and Reese began shredding what remained of his burger into small, cat-sized bites. "So," he finally broke the silence, "where are we going?"

Sam twisted over the seat. "We've gotta find someplace quiet to hole up for a while, lay low. Trouble is, Dad knew pretty much all of our best places."

"Meaning the demon does, too."

"Right. And everyone else we know is laying low right now in case it tries to find us through one of them. So, guess our only option is to stock up on supplies and go to that lake."

"What lake?"

"The one I was talking about… after we left the restaurant?" Understanding passed over Sam's face and the corners of his mouth gentled. "You were kinda out of it, huh?"

Anger spiked inside Reese, mostly directed at himself. "Yeah, you could say that." If by 'out of it,' Sam meant _completely helpless and groveling for my life_.

"Well, there's this lake, down in Colorado. It's holy to the Native Americans there and – "

Dean shifted. "American Indians."

Sam broke off and glared at him. "They _prefer_ to be called Native Ameri – "

"I don't care! They came across the land bridge, they're not _native_."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to Reese, who looked back and forth between them. "There's this lake. And it's in Colorado. The Taos Indians call it Blue Lake: it's holy to them, they fought for years to keep ownership over it. In 1906 the US government took it away and made it a park; the tribe spent 64 years reclaiming it, went before the Senate and everything. I studied the case at Stanford. The whole area is a sanctuary now."

"A sanctuary? What, like the church?"

Sam shrugged. "It's worth a shot. There are lotsa different religions in the world, and all of them have their myths and protections. More importantly, Dad never knew this one."

"So the demon won't, either."

"Hopefully," Dean put in grimly.

Reese replied to the back of his head, "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

There wasn't a lot of overt hostility in his tone, yet Dean still bristled silently. Sam hurried on, "We've gotta pick up some supplies. There's a campground up there, but it hasn't got much in the way of niceties. And, uh, it's at 10,000' in elevation. So it's gonna be kind of cold."

Mordac ate the last bit of burger from Reese's fingers then licked at the remnants of mustard with a sandpaper-rough tongue. "So that's it? Just hide away while that demon walks around looking for us?" If he was going down, he kinda preferred to do it in a blaze of glory instead of being run to ground.

Sam sighed. "Yep. Listen, Reese, we've been looking for this thing our whole lives. Believe me, if there was a way to destroy it? I'd be the first one to go after the damn thing; but I don't know any way. Missouri was right, we'd all get ourselves killed if we went after it right now. So, yeah, we're gonna go hide somewhere for a while, until things cool down and we can figure out our next move."

He watched Reese's face for a moment; Sam still had hope. When Reese made no reply, Sam sighed and reached over the seat to rub at Mordac's head. The small black cat purred and arched into the touch.

Reese eyed both Mordac and Sam, remembering how his smallest feline companion had been viciously terrified of the two demons back at the church. "Okay," he said. "When we stop for supplies, I need a new shirt and some pants. I don't think anyone wants me to walk around in the sacred Indian sanctuary while smelling like puke."

Dean snorted. "Smell didn't seem to bother you before."

Reese patted his legs and let Mordac crawl into his lap to nestle before he responded. "I didn't have much choice before. Did I?" He made the last words sharp, eyes sliding up to meet Dean's in the rearview mirror.

"We'll stop at a thrift store," Sam said quietly, reassuring. He turned back around in his seat and clearly tried to catch Dean's eye; Dean did not look back, and Reese watched their first missed dance step with curiosity.

-o-

They went a bit out of their way to Garden City so that Dean could hustle pool someplace populous enough to have multiple halls within striking distance of one another. There wasn't enough money left to get a room, so Sam and Reese sat outside in the truck, their legs kicked up and an array of fast food wrappers strewn around them.

After the third pool hall, beer and victory had loosened Dean up enough for him to recover a bit of his usual cocky flair; Sam hadn't realized until that exact moment exactly how much he'd missed it. Dean had been locked up in this weird, tense silence for the last day. Which wasn't to say that silence was all that unusual for Dean, Mr. We're Not Having This Conversation – but this silence felt less like repression and more like a string stretched too tight. Anything that eased that tension was fine by Sam, even if it entailed some illegal gambling.

"Six hundred up for the night," Dean reported as he climbed behind the wheel, dumping most of the money in Sam's lap. He only kept enough to buy himself some beer at the next place, and to make his bets. "I expect fawning and adulation."

"Oh, Dean, you are so mighty," Sam said in a monotone, playing along for once because he was _that_ relieved to see Dean in something approaching a good mood. "Whatever would we do without you?"

"Starve," Dean replied. "Plus you never would have learned to tie your damned shoes."

Sam frowned. "Shut up. I would've learned eventually. Just 'cause I took longer than most kids…"

"Bullshit." Dean backed the truck up and headed back for the main road through town, eyes darting to either side of the street in search of fresh hunting grounds. "You'd still be wearing those little sneakers with Velcro straps."

Reese, for his part, stayed relatively quiet in the back seat… at least until Dean went in for his fourth round. It was a blues joint, with rolling guitar notes that poured out from open doors into the night.

When Reese spoke it seemed completely involuntary, a breath of reverence drawn from him into words. "Johnny Lee."

Sam twisted around. Reese's gaze was rapt on the doorway; he leaned close to the window, simultaneously lit up and stilled by some private exhilaration. Sam stared for a moment, instinctively quieting his movements and voice before he asked, "Who?"

"Johnny Lee Hooker," Reese murmured, not moving his eyes. "Greatest blues artist that ever lived." His lips curled up and up, bright teeth flashing and eyes rising like a dawn. "'Boogie Chillun.' That's the song. Christ, it's been so long since I've heard it."

They listened to the song's rolling beat and the singer's plaintive voice; Sam stayed silent, not wanting to disrupt whatever magic the song held for Reese. The hand that Reese had rested on the back of the front seat began to move, fingers dancing in a certain pattern and rhythm; it took Sam a moment to recognize the pattern as guitar chords. He asked softly, "You a musician?"

He regretted it immediately when the hand stilled and withdrew. Reese tucked the sleeping Mordac a little closer to him, stroking his ear tufts. "I was, yeah. I was thinking about trying to get a degree in music studies."

"Yeah?" Sam wanted suddenly, desperately, to keep that soft smile on his little brother's face, and he searched for something light to say to ease them past these thick barriers. That had always been Dean's department, but he took his best stab. "You wanna be a teacher or a rock star?"

The smile deepened a little, turned wry. "Starving artist, most likely. All the really good blues musicians died young and penniless."

"Good career goal. Were you aiming for alcoholism, or tuberculosis?"

The smile became a grin and Sam congratulated himself internally. "I think someone would eventually have figured out that I'm a white boy poser from Minnesota and murdered me."

"Even better. Infamy."

Reese's grin became an audible chuckle and Sam backed off, let them both listen to the rest of the song in the space of a silence that felt almost companionable.

When the song ended Reese asked suddenly, "Has he always been like that?"

 _Dean_. "Like what?"

Reese slanted a sideways glance at him and pushed his too-long hair back behind his ears. "He's really protective. Of you."

Sam's fingers tapped his own beat against the dashboard for a moment. "Yeah. Pretty much. It was just us, after Mom died, out on the road with Dad. He didn't really start hunting until after I turned three, but once he did… Dean had to take care of me a lot. I think – Dean never talks about it, but I think Dad really _made_ him do it, y'know?" He frowned, thinking about how strange it felt to actually say this aloud; there had never been anyone else to talk to about it all. Normal people would have called Bellevue, and hunters… well, they weren't exactly a crowd prone to discussing troubled childhoods. "It's hard for him to _not_ to keep protecting me… he did it for so long when I was growing up."

Another song came on and Reese tapped along to it, though he didn't play any more guitar chords. After a moment, he said, "Gina's like that sometimes, too. Not so much towards me, but my little brother Tim was four when Mom divorced Harry. Gina was eleven – Mom put us in daycare for a couple of years, but after Ginny turned thirteen, she took over. She was the one who got Tim through pre-school, then kindergarten, then grade school… he had ADD." Reese smiled, but it wasn't an entirely happy expression. "Mom didn't even know for years. Gina took him to the counselors, got him his Ritalin, all of that."

"Sounds like a good sister," Sam said. "What about you – you're between them in age, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Reese wrinkled his nose. "I was always pretty self-sufficient… made Mom and Gina both loved that about me when I was little but I hardly ever did anything they told me to. Never finished anything I started. I did wrestling and then choir and then a band and then I quit them all and tried to drop out of school. I even had a lip ring for a while."

"A _lip ring_?"

Reese barked a short laugh, surprisingly deep. "Yeah. It was so stupid. I only had it for three weeks, it got infected and I was like, 'Having _pus_ in my _mouth_? Is just not. Worth. Trying to get attention.'" 

He shook his head and leaned against the truck door, head tipping against the window; Sam watched him from the corner of his eye, wondering if Reese realized how much he'd just revealed. _The plight of a middle child_ and it occurred to Sam that this might be exactly what he had to look forward to.

-o-

Dean wound up with a solid thousand, but was exhausted when he shuffled back to the truck; he really didn't feel like driving anywhere. Sam and Reese were both already asleep, their faces pressed against windows, so Dean heaved himself up into the driver's seat and wedged himself against the closed door, arms folded across his chest.

Sam woke up briefly to peer at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean grunted, wriggling to get a better position. "Think we're gonna spend the night right here if that's okay with everyone."

Sam laughed softly as his eyes slid shut again. "Fine by me."

That was the only one that counted in Dean's book. Dean closed his eyes, too, and slept straight through until dawn. He would have gone longer but he woke with a snap when someone poked his shoulder. "There's a public restroom over there," the kid said once Dean opened his eyes. He jerked his thumb past the bar to the edge of a small park. "I'm gonna go use it, okay?"

Dean blinked. "T'fuck you woke me up for? I don't need to know when you go take a piss."

The kid drew back. "I didn't want you waking and forgetting about me. Driving off."

Sam was still asleep, so Dean snorted quietly. "Yeah, I wish."

Reese jerked. "Well, fuck you, too," he hissed in a whisper.

Dean straightened away from the door, wincing a bit at the stiffness in his back, and going from zero to wrath in three seconds. He pointed a finger across the top of the seat but kept his voice to a low whisper. "Let's get something straight, here. Sam's tough, he can take care of himself, but he's a giant goober, too. So he hasn't noticed yet, but _I've_ seen the way you look at him. Like you're just waiting for him to sprout horns so that you can knife him. Don't think for a moment I'm not willing to do somethin' about it, too."

The kid listened to this whispered tirade, his face sliding from anger to that creepy blankness that he'd had back at the church. "Kinda weird, y'know," he commented quietly, mouth tight. "He's the demon-spawn, but _you're_ the giant dick."

"Sam is _not_ – "

"Hey." Sam sat up, blinking sleep from his eyes. "What's goin' on?"

Dean ground his teeth together. "Nothin'. Just discussin' where to piss."

The kid took a couple of deep breaths, then said quietly, "There's a public restroom in the park. I'm going to go use it, okay?"

Sam looked between the two of them, searching. "Yeah. Okay. I think I'll join you. Dean?"

Dean started to open his mouth, then closed it and waved a hand. "I'm good. You guys go ahead, promise not to leave without you."

He waited until they shut their doors and walked most of the way across the parking lot, their toiletries tucked under armpits. Then he climbed into the back seat. The little black cat woke up enough to lift its head and meow at him; Dean pointed a warning finger. "You do _anything_ and you're doggie-food, bitch." It took no offense, merely put its chin back down on its paws.

The gun was not easy to find: Dean had to go through most of the kid's meager possessions, pushing clothing out of the way. He ran across a few guitar picks, which gave him a puzzled pause, before finally unwrapping a pair of raggedy jeans to uncover the SIG.

It was too heavy. Dean swore and popped the clip out, his stomach tightening at the sight of bullets. The little fuck had swiped a loaded magazine to replace the empty one Dean had given him. _Fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

He didn't bother putting the clothes and other shit back, just tucked the SIG in his jeans and locked up the truck, hurrying in the direction of the public bathrooms and trying not to run, not to panic. He didn't think there were any other weapons missing, but he hadn't noticed the magazine and didn't trust himself not to have overlooked something else. Sam could handle one skinny punk, he could… but he _was_ a giant goober, a softie who would try to reason and be gentle rather than fucking _protecting_ himself. 

Dean broke into a trot. Fuck this. He'd knock Sam out and tie him up if he objected, then leave the kid beside the road. He was not letting anybody hurt Sam, he _couldn't_ , Christ, Sam was all he had left…

It was just a flicker of light, a change in air pressure, and then Dad stood right in his way, occupying a space that had been empty just a moment before. Dean stopped so fast that he almost tripped, his heart galloping straight up his throat.

For all that he was insubstantial enough for early sunlight to pass through him, John Winchester looked _pissed_. He leveled one finger at Dean and snapped in a voice that seemed to come from miles away, "He's my goddamned _son_ , Dean."

He vanished just as quickly as he'd arrived, blipping back out to whatever in-between place where ghosts hung out while waiting for somebody to set things right. 

Dean stared at the now-empty space.

After a while, he continued on his path at a much slower pace.

Sam and Reese had discovered some kind of outdoor faucet and were attempting to wash their hair: it was apparently Reese's turn, because he had stripped down to a stained white undershirt. His skinny back flexed as he ducked his head into the stream of water, and even from a distance Dean could hear his yelp. " _Cold! Cold!_ "

Sam laughed and said something that made Reese straighten and glare at him reproachfully through dripping hair. Sam laughed louder.

Dean thought, _Fuck fuck fuck fuckity_ FUCK.


	13. In Which Someone Has to Choke, Stab, and/or Possess A Bitch

If Sam was some kind of demon spawn, he didn't respond to any of the usual indicators. Reese handed him bottles dosed with holy water, pressed a rosary against his skin as he slept, and whispered several different Latin rituals, all without drawing any response.

Which didn't mean he couldn't be demonically _influenced_ somehow. Reese had spent the entire drive from Salina with their father's journal balanced on one knee, reading about cambions and changelings. He didn't miss the notes that someone had made on the pages, and the dog-eared corners where the same person had folded the corners down to mark his place.

He also hadn't missed the hastily-rearranged disarray of his clothes: Dean had taken back the gun, though he hadn't said anything about it yet. In fact, he hadn't said anything for most of the morning, just gripped the steering wheel tight. 

All through the collection of various supplies – food, camping gear, some holy water swiped from the local church – Reese did his best not to be alone with Dean. Which was _all_ kinds of ironic, since Reese felt pretty dead certain that _Dean_ at least was human.

Whatever else Sam happened to be, though, he didn't appear likely to haul off and shoot Reese at a moment's notice. So, Reese stuck close to him… with his knife in his pocket, of course.

In fact, Sam was something of a cool guy. He had an easy-going charm to him, the kind that was almost impossible to fake, mixed with enough shyness to make him personable but not overwhelming. He was _likable_ , and when the two of them ventured into the REI store after some camping equipment – Reese muttering Latin at the store's few patrons – Sam was almost ridiculously patient, steering them towards the outer walls where Reese could watch everyone in the store while keeping his back to something solid.

His father's journal had informed Reese that there weren't nearly as many demons in the world as his terrified mind had conjured; despite that – and despite the fact that there were only about a half-dozen people inside the REI store on a Sunday morning – Reese hovered at a low level of panic. "How do you stand it?" he asked Sam. "Knowing there could be a demon in any one of them?"

Sam paused, a sweater in his hands. "I dunno," he answered at last, looking around like the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "It's just been that way as long as I can remember… it was either get used to it or be afraid all the time." He held the sweater up to Reese's chest and frowned. "You're somewhere between medium and large, huh?"

Dean met them in the parking lot, having filled half the back seat with non-perishable food. "You girls have fun picking out some new clothes?" he asked, face blank.

"Shut up," Sam replied without rancor. "You're just bitter that you had to shop with housewives instead of rugged outdoorsmen. We picked up some thermal gear, and another sleeping bag."

"Oh, goody." Dean slid back behind the wheel. "There's a gun store just outta town, we need bullets. I think we musta left a couple of the SIG magazines back at the church."

Reese startled and glanced into the rearview mirror; Dean's narrowed green eyes slid away and he started the truck.

-o-

Okay, he wasn't going to _kill_ the little fucker. Just… hit him in the head a few times. Maybe break a wrist, enough to slow him down. _Christ_ , Dean wished he could blame his morning visitation from Dad on sleep deprivation instead of their father's ghost reaching from beyond the grave to issue orders, because all he wanted to do was open a door and boot the punk out. Not back the truck over him or anything. Not even a bit, though it would feel _good_ , would feel nicely justified and vindictive.

Right now, though, he'd settle for getting the fucker away from Sam. 'Cause Sam was getting attached: Sam had always wanted a puppy growing up, had begged and begged to be allowed to keep one in the back of the Impala. He'd driven Dad to distraction with his pleading.

Sam, the idiot, was actually starting to _like_ the bastard punk. And the bastard punk was being all friendly right back, even while he stole bullets from Dean (a killing offense by itself) with the intention – Dean presumed – of blowing Sam's head off.

Oh, yeah. Dean _really_ wished they could lose this kid.

Except. Dad had been right there. Dad had stood right in front of Dean and said _he's my son_.

 _Fuck_ , Dean swore mentally, for the fiftieth time that day. He felt loose inside, his innards rattling around in every different direction like dice inside a tumbler. Too many things circling, between the demon and this kid and the way sunlight had traveled straight through his father's body. Dean had looked this time, really looked with his eyes wide open. He'd seen the places where Dad's colors had bleached and faded.

Dad was dead. Dad was _dead_ , and his ghost was following them around. Or following Dean around at least, to issue warnings and offer helpful advice such as, _don't kill your long-lost little shit of a brother_.

 _Fuck_. Christ, Dean wished Dad hadn't decided to start popping by from the spirit world… and immediately despised himself for even thinking that. Sam had chosen to save Dean instead of their father; by all rights and purposes, Dean was living Dad's life. Living it poorly, no less. Dad had kept them safe for years and it hadn't missed Dean's attention that the weird things in Sam's head had only really kicked off in Dad's absence. Not that John Winchester had had some magic cure-all, but… he would've known what to do. It was on Dean now to keep Sam safe. 

And Sam. Dean stole a quick glance at him from behind sunglasses. Sam had a map spread over his lap, writing vectors and calculating mileage. Sam did math problems for the same reason that Dean banged any available chick, to keep things on an even keel. For years it had freaked Dean out, until he'd understood that what _he_ really wanted to do was lose a little control, while Sam wanted to gain it.

God, he loved his brother.

Which brought him back around to the matter at hand: their wild-haired, potentially-murderous tagalong in the back seat, who was snoozing happily in the mid-afternoon sun. It was a damn shame that Sam was as smart as he was: whatever Dean did to the punk, he knew he wouldn't get by with making it look like an accident. Sam would get pissed at him for hurting the puppy and would probably start defending the bastard even more than he already did. Not to mention whatever Dad, or what was left of Dad, would have to say about the matter.

 _Fuck that_ , Dean thought wildly, and shivered inside. Dad was dead. _Dead_. Which meant there was just Sam, here, beside him. Sam, who he'd bathed when he was tiny, scrubbing soap across that skinny-little-boy back and splashing water in his eyes. Sam, who was fucking _waiting_ for Dean to snap and fall apart.

_Guess what, Sammy, here it comes._

"Shit. It's about a hundred and fifty miles to the nearest rest stop." Sam closed the map.

Dean relocated his voice. "You wanna find a man to talk to about a horse?"

"I can wait." He glanced sideways at Dean, brow wrinkling up. "You want me to drive? You look a little…"

Dean was already pulling them over to the shoulder. "Whatever. Go find your horseman and I'll let you take over. Don't want you peeing on the steering wheel."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, 'cause you've already marked _that_ territory."

"Damn straight."

The humor disarmed Sam enough that he laughed and slid out of the car without a backwards glance. The highway was deserted; ahead of them it wound up into the high desert of New Mexico, where it'd be dry and cold. Here, though, creeks ran down from the higher elevations and fed a wide array of vegetation, sprouting trees and bushes thicker than the rolling Kansas greenness they'd left behind them. Dean watched in the side mirror as Sam, the big prude, found a particularly thick clump of bushes.

"Is this where we continue with the threats?" Either the kid had only been pretending to sleep or his survival instincts were well-honed enough to awaken him at the first sign of danger. Judging from the roughness of his voice, it was the latter; it'd take him another few moments to wake up all the way.

Dean twisted around, leather squeaking against the denim of his jeans. The kid tensed. Dean took a breath before he spoke; he had intent but no idea how to proceed. 

What came out was, "You think he's a demon, or something?" And where the fuck did that come from, because Dean didn't want to hear the bastard's _theories_.

The kid eyed him, still and cautious. "Not a demon. But something different, yeah." He paused, then said a little wildly, "You've thought about it, haven't you?"

"No," Dean answered, a little less than honest. "Don't care." That was better, truer, more to the point; he went with it. "Sam could be the Anti-Christ and it still wouldn't matter to me. Not that he is, 'cause he's _Sam_ , but hypothetically speaking, in your deranged Cat-Planet world, let's say Sam is something weird. He's a – whatever." Dean brushed one hand through the air, sweeping all of it aside. "Now, normally I'm all about hunting Whatevers. I killed my first when I was fourteen goddamned years old, you got me? I'm good at it. I _like_ it," and he showed his teeth for good measure. 

They were two wild animals in a stare-down, eyes locked and struggling. Dean went on, "There is nothing wrong with Sam. I've known him longer than anyone else alive, I carried him out of a fucking fire when he was a baby; I taught him how to tie his shoes; I _protected_ him my entire fucking life. _You_ ," he jabbed a finger in the air, "do not get to come in here and read _my_ Dad's journal and think about what my little brother _isn't_ , and you do _not_ get to pretend to be all friendly with him while you _steal bullets from me_."

The kid was pressed into the far corner of the back seat and Dean felt a surge of vindictive righteousness, tempered a bit at the gleam of a knife's edge in the corner of the kid's hand. The kid still found his voice, though it came out shaky. "So, you wanna dump me someplace? Fuck you, I'm fine with that."

"Wish I could, but see, here's the kicker: Dad showed up again this morning. Told me that you're his son, that I couldn't leave you behind." Dean laughed, a raw sound. "Don't think I believed it until right then, but y'know, even now, I don't give a shit who you are. And I don't care what Sam is, he's my _brother_ and if you hurt him at all, _ever_ , I will fucking tear you apart. That's a promise."

Dean swung his legs up onto the front seat. The kid flinched, recognizing the movement as preparation; he could have made a run for it right then, but instead he lifted the cat off his lap to tuck it on the floor. _The kid and his goddamned cats_.

"So," Dean said, way down somewhere low in his torn-up chest, where his guts had been ripped apart by something wearing his Dad's face. He'd been torn up too bad for stitches to simply put him together; they'd held this long but he was falling pell-mell down the slope now, pieces breaking off left and right. 

_And fuck you, too, Dad_ , he thought, because he could never say it to his father's face. _Fuck you for putting this on me, for just_ dumping _this._

"So, you're staying," he went on aloud, "but the only way you're staying is if I _know_ you're not gonna hurt Sam. Gimme the knife."

The kid wouldn't have much mobility with the knife, not with how tight he was holding it. He drew in a quick breath and said, "No."

-o-

Even after zipping back up, Sam took his time in the soft grass beside the road. They'd been in the car pretty much nonstop since leaving the church and it had been hell on Sam's legs; he relished the opportunity to stretch cramped muscles. Plus, he'd always liked this part of the country, where Midwest fields gave way to brush and adobe. He'd been to every state in the continental US before the age of eight, and everyone in the family had their preferences: Dean liked the flat middle states where he could go forever in any direction; Sam preferred the Southwest, with its geologic formations of Earth and wind, all the immovable permanence of stone weathered by relentless change. Dad liked mountains, especially the Appalachian range. The homesteads there still hung holly above their doors and people were less blind to the world's darkness.

Sam realized suddenly that he was still thinking of his father in the present tense. It didn't seem possible that Dad was actually dead. He and Dean had spent so long being afraid of just that, searching and searching for any scrap of hope that they had not been orphaned by chance or fate. Sam had – rather coldly, he thought now – steeled himself against the possibility that their search would end in a dead body.

This was so much worse. To know that Dad was out there, split down the middle like a beam of wood: his body held by the demon and his spirit drifting as lost as any other mislaid spirit – Sam shivered among the sun-dappled leaves.

And in the back of his mind, a traitorous little whisper: why had he only appeared to Dean? If Missouri was right and Sam didn’t belong to the demon, then why was _Dean_ the only one who could see Dad?

He closed that away quickly. By default Sam fell back on logic in times of crisis, while Dean wound himself so tight in emotion that nothing could get out, or in. Sam had no idea what Reese relied on when all else failed.

It was _logical_ , what had happened. Dad had been driven to catch the demon at any cost to himself – and sometimes his sons as well. More than that, though, he must have been desperate for an end: after twenty-two years, he must have been so tired, soul worn down to a nub that kept crawling forward. In that light, his choice to go to Lincoln – which Sam had argued against at the time – made complete sense; he thought he'd been at the end of his quest, had found a way to avenge his wife and set himself free. From there the demon had taken over, finding new ways to twist the Winchesters against themselves and each other, using their father's face against them. Against Dean first, who had had a chance to end it all and wavered to his own huge emotions; and then Sam, who'd had the same chance and done the same.

If he'd been alone, on his own, just him and Dad and the demon, he could have done it. Sam would have done it and he wasn't sure what would have happened to him afterwards, but then Dean had whispered, " _Don't, Sammy_ ," speaking from a place of blood and pure emotion on the floor.

Sam thought and Dean felt. They'd always been each other's opposite and complement and compensation. Sam understood the logistics of what had happened, cause and effect that resulted in the demise of their father; but Dean felt the absence.

Neither of them had yet had a chance to see the other side, logic and emotion superceded by necessity that had kept them going this far without any pause to work through the simple, blunt fact that Dad was _dead_.

And then there was Reese. Sam sighed through his teeth and started back to the road. He had no idea what went on in Reese's quick, inscrutable mind any more than he'd ever been able to parse out his father's designs until far after the fact. Which was not a pleasant thought and had Sam four-square against letting Reese anywhere near the demon… not that proximity – or the lack thereof – had ever stopped John Winchester from obsessing about the damn thing.

Sam climbed the short hill back up onto the highway's cracked tarmac and paused there, enjoying one last breath of fresh air and leg-freedom before turning back to the truck.

In the back window there was a flurry of violent movement, arms and bodies moving fast.

Sam gaped – actually _gaped_ for a moment like an amateur idiot – then blurted, "Aw, _shit_ ," and broke into a sprint.

He went for the driver's side of the truck, thinking he'd have to drag his older brother off the younger, but it turned out that he'd underestimated Reese. Those years on the wrestling team had made him effective at close quarters; and he had the knife. Sam had forgotten about the knife.

Dean apparently hadn't. He had one hand closed around Reese's wrist, pinning the knife's hilt against the back seat; the other clenched Reese's throat tight enough that Reese had started to turn red. The position left Dean's body open, though, and Reese was taking all kinds of shots that a wrestling team would have trained him _not_ to, kneeing Dean in the stomach and the groin.

Neither of them took any notice of Sam, just kept grunting and choking and breathing hard, completely focused on each other.

Sam kind of crawled in against Dean's back, shouting at them both. He was terrified to break their stalemate, though, and risk Reese having his neck broken or Dean getting a knife to the heart. The only solution he could find was to reach past them both – long arms had always served him so well – and shove open the passenger door so that Reese tumbled out backwards and Dean followed.

Sam had to scramble across the back seat after them and by that time Dean had asserted his advantage: with more room to fight came more styles of fighting. 

Reese didn’t block the blows too well. He was panting, his eyes wide, closing in on another panic attack even while his body instinctively fought on without him.

Sam dove out of the truck and grabbed Dean around the chest and _lifted him up off his feet_ – strain in Sam's back at that – his arms clenched tight as he threw Dean against the side of the truck. Dean made a thin noise of pain and Sam cringed, remembering stitches too late.

Reese stumbled backwards, still panting. Sam made the mistake of turning towards him; it was purely instinctive, but so was Reese's response. He flinched, hands rising up to block any potential attack, and the knife rose with that movement. It was just a small change in position, the point wavering, but it was enough.

A snarl busted out of Dean's throat and he launched himself at the Reese and the knife without a single hesitation for his own safety. Only Sam, twisting like a windmill between them, kept Dean from being impaled, though Dean's immediate response was to dig his toes in harder, determined to get to Reese again.

"Stop!" Sam bellowed, throwing out a forearm to catch Dean at the throat. Couldn't hit his body again, not with the stitches. "Dean, _stop_ , stoppit, don't – "

Dean's eyes had fallen into slits, skin pulled tight, pupils shrunk. Sam knew, right then, that nothing short of serious injury or maybe an order from their father would halt Dean's warpath; but their father was dead, and Dean was all Sam had.

Dean surged and Sam caught him with a hand on his chest, thinking stupidly that Reese would stab his hand instead of Dean's chest, anything to stop Dean, to reach him through his berserker fury and stop from getting himself killed right in front of Sam. 

Just like he'd watched their father die three weeks ago.

The memory of that went straight down into Sam's stomach like a shotglass full of acid, burning through barriers so fast that he didn't even know how or what happened. He just had the sensation of putting his palm flat against Dean's chest to hold him and _going through_ the skin without breaking it. 

Dean made a strange noise, a choke and cry of something that sounded like pain; Sam wanted to see where he was hurt, but he was too busy trying to see _at all_. Like a double-image on a television screen, his vision had suddenly split down the middle the moment his hand had… done whatever it had done. He could see Dean, who looked a little strange, head thrown back and eyes rolling to the whites; and at the same time, overlaid over Dean like a ghost image, he could see Reese staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

Dean and Reese were standing on opposite sides of Sam.

"Holy shit," Sam gasped, and heard Dean say it at the exact same moment in the exact same way. Heard _his_ voice saying it, too, but not from inside his own head. Sam had the sensation of falling without movement, of stepping off a high dive blindfolded and immediately achieving terminal velocity; which didn't mean that the ground wasn't rising up to splatter him and he flailed instinctively for purchase. His fingers – but they _weren't_ his fingers, not at all – closed tight around something, but it wriggled unhappily in his grip. Sam tightened instinctively around it, trying to steady himself and Dean cried out a second time. This time it was definitely pain.

Sam realized that this wriggling, desperate thing that he squeezed tight in invisible fingers was _Dean's fucking mind_ , and let go instantly.

The two sides to his vision crashed together and all Sam could see was Dean, sheet-white and slumping to the ground. There was a noise behind him and with what little energy he could muster Sam turned his head.

Reese was running, sprinting away from them, crashing headlong to disappear in the treeline.


	14. In Which Sam Angsts and Reese Is Lost and Found

Dean awoke with a lurch and asked, "Y'okay?" before his eyes had even opened.

For a moment Sam didn't answer, just gripped Dean's shoulders and slung his forehead down to rest on his brother's collarbone. "Jesus, Dean," he laughed. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"What happened?" Dean pushed at him weakly, trying to see his face.

Sam fell back as much in deference to his own fears as Dean's concern. "I don't know. Are you all right?"

Dean stared at him from where Sam had propped him against the pickup's back tire. The color still hadn't come back to his face and he was breathing in short bursts. His eyes looked glassy. "You – " he started, then broke off.

"I don't know what I just did, Dean." Sam drew up a knee and leaned his elbow against his, his palm pressed to his forehead. It felt like he'd broken something inside his brain, some sore place just behind his eyes. "Reese took off."

"You were… _inside_ me."

Sam shuddered, feeling sick. "The cat ran off, too." He could hear it in the bushes, meowing loudly. Sam dropped his hand and stood, fighting vertigo. "I'm gonna go find it, okay?"

Dean's head had fallen back to rest against the side of the truck and he stared up at Sam with reddened eyes. Sam really didn't want to interpret the expression there, so he turned sharply on a heel and strode away towards the treeline in the direction of the cat's meowing.

It heard him coming and skittered away into the bushes. "Cat!" Sam called after it weakly. "Cat - - Mordac. Mordac, Lord of Furyyyy." His crooning trailed away into a half-hearted chuckle. Seriously, though, who named their cat the lord of anything? He lumbered on through the dry brush, snapping twigs and clumsy with the effort of not thinking about anything in particular.

It crept up at the edges, though, as he peered at leaves in search of black fur and remembered that Dean's eyes had been sharper than his, probably the result of long hours bent over textbooks in a poorly-lit dorm room. That had been back when Sam couldn't afford an actual lamp and his eyes had never really recovered.

He found a log and sat down, wondering if Dean had picked himself up from the side of the road yet, if he'd climbed back in the truck and was waiting or driving off or readying a gun to hunt Reese or Sam or both of them.

Dean had been possessed before, however briefly: an exorcism had gone wrong a few weeks after his 17th birthday. He'd spewed hatred at Sam and John, flailed dramatically, and then had gone limp when John chanted, doused, and beat the damn thing out of him. Dad had passed out in a drunken stupor on the living room floor by the time Dean woke up with bruises and burns, and Dean hadn't talked about it, had been very _anti_ -talking about whatever had happened between him and the demon inside his own head.

So Sam couldn't exactly trudge back out of the woods and ask, _'hey, Dean, did what I just do to you feel, y'know, familiar?'_

Something soft and alive brushed against his knuckles. Sam jumped about two feet and Mordac flinched, dropping low on his haunches but holding his ground. He glared up reproachfully and meowed.

By the time Sam made his way back to the pickup, Dean had hauled himself up into the cab and sat with his boots dangling out sideways in the sun. He'd also dug out one of the water bottles. When Sam got close enough, Dean pointed a finger at him around the bottle. "You didn't hurt me. I'm fine, Sam. Stop angsting."

And yeah, there it was. The normal Dean-stoicism, so unlike the white-knuckled containment he'd seen in his older brother since… well, _since_. Sam wanted to laugh but didn't quite have the energy; what a pair, the two of them. They'd always managed to time their breakdowns in opposition to each other's. So it made perfect that Dean's endurance snapped and rebounded just as Sam had reached the brink of his own.

Dean scowled and flicked water droplets at him. "I said knock it off."

"What did I _do_ , Dean?" Sam started to spread his arms wide, then stopped when he remembered that he had a small cat tucked in his hands. Mordac mewled and dug claws into Sam's shirt, protesting the day he'd been having with flattened ears and wide yellow eyes.

"I don't fuckin' know," Dean responded flatly. The set of his jaw looked stubborn. "Didja ask Missouri?"

Sam curled a hand around Mordac's tiny skull, rubbing absently under his chin. "Yeah. She said – that I wasn't anything demonic. That there wasn't any _reason_ for why the demon wants me, it just does. And don't." He pointed back at Dean, cutting him off. "Don't even try to start agreeing with her. You never trusted her before."

Dean had to concede that point, but he came back with another. "Dad did. He trusted her more than practically anybody else."

"Not enough to tell her about Reese." Silence fell at that and Sam looked up in time to catch Dean's eyes sliding away. "What the fuck were you thinking, man?" In the absence of concern and fear, anger rushed in. "Jesus Christ… were you actually trying to _kill_ him?"

Stubbornness returned to Dean's mouth. "No, but he was gonna try to kill _you_. He stole bullets for the SIG."

"So, what, you were gonna choke him for something he hadn't done yet, then dump him on the side of the road and hope that I wasn't going to notice? Tell me that wasn't your plan, Dean!"

"I wasn't gonna _kill_ him. Chrissake, Sam." Dean chucked the water bottle out into the grass, then huffed in annoyance when Sam strode out to retrieve it, cat tucked in one arm like a football. When Sam came back he went on, "Maybe I just didn't like the idea of him sitting at your back with a knife."

"So you tried wrestling it away from him and almost got one of you killed." Sam poured as much disgust into the words as he could, overshadowing his fear. He stepped forward and plopped the cat squarely in Dean's lap, who reared back as if Sam had presented him with a six-headed Grigori offspring. "Here. Hold him."

"Oh, hell no – "

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped, then turned smartly on his heel again and headed back for the trees. "I'm gonna go find him. Stay put and try not to shoot anything."

-o-

Sam circled back an hour later, without the kid. "I think he's hiding somewhere," he announced shortly, digging into the back for another water bottle.

Dean did not reply. He sat in the front with the cat in his lap; the damned thing didn't even have the grace to peacefully sleep, just sat there on Dean's thighs with its yellow eyes watching the trees around the pickup. It had meowed when Sam reappeared, then gone back to waiting. Dean found it a little eerie, but then again Dad had always said that cats were funny animals, not quite as domesticated as dogs and thus more aware to non-human things. Plus, this one had spent most of its adolescence in close quarters with a pair of demons.

Dean leaned back against the seat and watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. He'd put the last hour to good use, still too wobbly to stand on his own but perfectly able to think through a couple of things. First and foremost, there was no way he could let Sam know how much Sam's newest trick had scared him. Whatever Missouri had said, Dean knew what a possession felt like and that had pretty much been it; still, he wasn't about to start carrying a knife around Sam. Dean didn't need Missouri or anyone else to tell him that Sam wasn't demonic. Sam was good to the core and Dean knew that the same way he knew which direction was 'down,' instinctive and complete. Trouble was, _Sam_ didn't know it the same way: he was all intellectualism and logic, empirical data that pointed to a certain conclusion. _If_ Dean said it felt like a possession, _then_ it must have been a possession. _If_ it was a possession, _then_ Sam must be some kind of demon.

So. Not talking to Sam about that part. Check

Which kinda sucked, because there were things that had happened when Sam had done Whatever He'd Done that Dean actually _did_ want to talk about. He'd been aware enough to be scared about this foreign thing pressing into his mind, but fascinated, too, because he knew it had been _Sam_. It hadn't been like a Vulcan mind meld or anything… more like a shadow puppet show glimpsed through a blanket. Dean understood now that Sam was so, so scared to lose him; that Sam wondered if he brought death everywhere he went, just by being himself; that Sam felt guilty for never obeying his father, especially when John had said _you shoot me in the heart, son_. 

The reason Sam was so nice to Reese – trying so hard to like him, to protect him and take care of him – was because the kid _reminded him of Dad_. Or what Sam imagined Dad must've been like, back in the beginning: wide-eyed terror and mindless determination, marching towards obsession. Which… yeah, maybe. Maybe Dean could see that, just a little bit.

Dean blinked down at the cat and suddenly wondered what that little tidbit meant in relation to his instantaneous, intense dislike of the kid.

Aloud, he said, "So what're we gonna do? Sit here and wait?"

They ended up doing exactly that, sitting in the truck under the sun as the shadows got longer and the deeper blue of night bled across the sky from one horizon to another. A little while after sunset they started to hear something away in the trees; at first Dean thought that it must be a pack of coyotes calling to the moon. As time worn on, though, the sound got nearer and, terribly, began to form syllables. _Moooooordaaaaaac_. 

Dean's stomach turned over at the thin sound. In the back seat, Sam shifted but didn't speak. It went on and on and on, until Dean squirmed with the sheer discomfort of hearing that much loneliness and desperation vocalized. And guilt … he'd caused this, after all. The cat in his lap was squirming too, trying to get out to its master and crying in protest when Dean tightened his grip instinctively.

And still the kid kept calling and calling until Sam, clearly not able to stand it any longer, took in a breath of chilly mountain air and called back, " _Reese_."

The kid's voice stopped. Dean held his breath and watched the outline of Sam, dim in the shadows. "Turn on the lights," Sam ordered. He still sounded pissed and Dean made no comment in return, just leaned across the front seat and flicked on the truck's headlights.

Another fifteen minutes or so passed. The everyday night creatures had emerged in full force and the forest rang with owl hoots and frog croaks. Dean found himself thinking about wendigos or anything else that could be out there in the trees. With their luck, a yeti would probably wander out of the trees soon to munch on them. Sam had gotten out of the back seat and stood on the edge of the road with his back to the truck.

Dean was so preoccupied with trying to figure out a way past Sam's anger that it caught him off guard when the kid finally staggered out about thirty feet in front of the truck looking like an escapee of the Donner party. He had twigs in his hair and the knees of his jeans had been stained with mud and vomit. He also looked completely terrified, his skinny shoulders hunched down and a visible shiver in all of his limbs that was way too violent to only be from the cold.

He didn't come any closer. The kid folded his arms, hugging himself and called out in that thin, desperate voice, "Gimme Mordac!"

 _Damn,_ Dean thought absurdly. _Kid really loves this cat_. Then it hit him: _all_ the kid wanted was the cat. That's all he'd come back for. He was way beyond caring, or even noticing, that it was already damned cold out and the nearest civilization was fifty miles away. If the kid stayed out here, he'd probably die of exposure. And that's what he'd do, he'd disappear back into the woods forever if he only had his precious cat.

All Dean had to do was let it go. The twisting, writhing thing clearly wanted to run out to join the kid in his death march; the kid must have hid pretty well from Sam earlier, he could probably do it again. Sam was already pissed at him, but Dean could plead innocence and show Sam where the thing had torn strips out of his hands with its struggles to get free. All he had to do was let go and he wouldn't have to worry about the kid cutting Sam's throat in his sleep or going off half-cocked and getting them all killed.

"Please," and the kid's voice broke, miserable. "Just… gimme Mordac."

Dean shifted his grip on the cat, holding it as tight as he could without actually hurting the damned thing. It flailed, small but strong muscles moving under his hands and claws digging in. He resorted to tucking it inside his jacket, and winced as it bumped against his stitches, yowling. He hoped like hell the kid couldn't hear it, he'd probably think that Dean was strangling his precious baby.

Sam was walking out to the kid, hands raised, and Dean felt words rise in his throat. The same old fear, of little Sammy going where he would be out of reach, heading out into the dark of night without proper warning or weaponry or backup.

For the first time since Stanford – and that hadn't been a proper goodbye, there had been those surreptitious trips to lurk outside Sam's dorm room for a few hours at a time – Dean let him go. Let Sam walk out into the half-dark and he could only pray that maybe Sam had seen into Dean's mind a bit too, and understood why Dean had gone for the kid's throat in the first place.

He wouldn't live past Sam. Wouldn't, couldn't, didn't want to.

Dean sat back against the bench seat, struggling to breathe evenly. Part of him really wanted to just lay down in the bed of the car and wait until it all got sorted out one way or another. The other part kept his eyes open and fixed on Sam's big shoulders, the way they hunched down. Big Sam, always trying to make himself smaller.

Beyond him, the kid's face looked so pale, like a doll with dark smudges for eyes.

And oh, _Christ_ , Sam was handing him a gun. Actually leaning out and handing it to him by the stock. The kid wouldn't take it at first, just flinched backward and stared at Sam with eyes as wild as any other forest dweller. Sam finally put the gun on the ground and then _turned his fucking back on the kid_ and walked towards the truck. Sam had a tight, set look around his mouth, tension evident in his walk. He was half-expecting to get shot.

Dean understood what he was doing, understood it completely. He still wanted to scream _what the fuck do you think you're doing, idiot?_ out the passenger window. 

Sam made it all the way to the driver's side door without incident, then turned around. On the edge of the headlight's illumination, the kid looked like any highway ghost or apparition, a hitchhiker ready to cut your throat as soon as you pulled over. He stared back at them, shivering and uncertain. Then he turned to look back into the trees and Dean could _see_ him understand. Could see the moment when the kid's shoulders slumped, when his face changed and became utterly lost.

Finally, hesitantly, the kid bent down to scoop up the gun. He didn't grip it like Dean had taught him, just dangled it loosely at his side as he came over to the truck. He cut a wide berth around Dean's door and pulled the back open with a creak. Sam climbed in and they shut their doors simultaneously.

The three of them sat in the truck cab, listening to each other breathe.

It occurred to Dean suddenly that it was _his_ turn to have the kid at his back. The back of his exposed neck prickled at the thought; he took a deep breath and pulled his jacket aside to release the cat. It promptly leapt over the seat into its daddy's arms. The kid made a strange, soft little noise and Dean didn't turn around to know that he was hugging the cat close to him.

Sam ran his hands through over his face, through his hair. He looked suddenly and completely exhausted. "Okay," he said, and started the truck.


	15. In Which Truces Are Made and Hums are Heard

They got to Blue Lake a couple of hours before dawn. Sam almost drove past the turnoff in the dark; it was just a narrow dirt road branching off of state highway 12. It went almost straight uphill for 4 miles, the windshield tilted up towards the stars like they were driving the pickup straight into the Milky Way. Reese gripped his seatbelt tight, silently agonized with terror that Sam would miss a curve or the wheels would slip off the side and they'd all plummet to their deaths. He had only ever known streets and highways, back alleys where the only fear was scraping your side mirrors, not falling off the side of a mountain. Dark evergreen spires rose up on either side and Reese had the creepy feeling that the only way out was forward, or back.

Then the road leveled so abruptly that for a moment Sam forgot to let up on the gas and they surged forward. The trees fell away and though Reese couldn't see the lake in the dark, he could discern the space where it must be: an opening in the earth with nothing between it and the sky. Distantly, an uneven hedge of trees cut into the horizon, marking the other side. It wasn't very large, maybe only a few hundred feet wide, but from the arc of the treeline it had a nice oval shape.

"Campground's about a quarter-mile up," Dean said from the front seat, and though his voice was soft it sounded loud after all that silence. None of them had spoken since they'd started driving again, since Reese had given up and gotten back on board.

It hadn't been any sense of trust that had made him climb back into the truck with Sam at the wheel and Dean sitting right in front of him. Reese still had his knife and he still had the gun, for all the good that they would do him. He had no idea how to protect himself from his brothers: his legs and hips were a mess of soreness from the kicks that Dean had throw at him, his throat ached with every breath, and his mind kept circling around to that moment on the road.

Sam had put his hands on Dean and Dean's eyes had gone to white instead of black. They'd spoken as one, twitching and gasping together.

Reese had known instinctively that it wasn't the same as what a demon did; but it had been terrifying enough in its own right to make him run.

The trouble was, there weren't many places that he could run to. Tim and Gina were out of the question, Reese had already gotten Mom killed and he wasn't risking the only family he had left. He still had friends in St. Paul, but anyone else who would be willing to take him in stood the same risk, and they would all ask questions. He couldn’t just vanish for a year and then reappear without people being naturally curious. Tim and Gina would know enough not to ask, but anyone else…

They drove alongside the lake, skirting its round fullness to reach the campground on the far side. Reese slid across the seat, cradling the warm lump of Mordac, to look out the window. The edge of the headlight's beam ran across the low shrubbery between them and the water, occasionally breaking through to glint off the dark surface.

The campground wasn't much, just 15 empty parking spaces and a natural toilet. Reese hated those things: he and Gina had been major X-Files fans when they were young and that one episode with the mutant fluke-worm-man had scared them both into avoiding outdoor toilets for years. Tim had mercilessly teased them both. 

They were the only campers. It was late in the season, and Sam had said that the Indians didn't really like having people come up here. When Sam cut the engine and turned off the headlights, night and silence rushed in. The three of them sat there for a long moment, adjusting to the absence of sound or movement.

In his lap, Mordac awoke, stretched, and meowed once. Reese rolled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to get up enough moisture to say, "Gotta go t'the bathroom."

The bench seat creaked and Reese could barely make out the outline of Sam as he turned. "Need a flashlight?"

"Not me. Mordac." Reese gathered the cat to his chest and popped the back door open. Mordac had always been best about letting Reese know when he needed to go outside. 

Gravel crunched underneath Reese's feet as he stepped out and he bent to put the small cat down. It was chilly, only a few degrees warmer than it had been at the church and Reese paused a moment to wonder if he'd ever be warm again in his life. The cold didn’t seem to bother Mordac: he sniffed the air for a moment before heading away from the truck. He melted in immediately, black shape against black night.

When Dean opened the side door the dome light came on. Mordac glanced back, his eyes reflecting the weak light, then scurried away into the dark. Reese tensed instinctively, kind of wishing he could scurry away himself. He didn't have cat-eyes, though. He couldn't see what was out there, he'd probably run into a tree before he got ten feet.

Dean stepped out and stood in the gravel. Reese put a hand inside his jacket pocket, feeling the gun there. Sam had said it was loaded and it felt that way, heavier than the empty one that Dean had given him. He wondered what Sam would do if Dean came at Reese again and Reese shot him. He knew what Dean would do if Reese shot Sam.

"Fuck," Dean swore. "Goddammit, Sam, why'd you have to bring us someplace so cold?" He spoke loudly, as if he felt some need to fill both the emptiness of this place or the silence that had fallen between the three of them. 

Sam's door opened and shut. "Everything for five miles in each direction is a religious sanctuary," he said by way of explanation. His boots made crunch-crunch sounds as he circled around the front of the truck to stand on the other side of Dean. "The Taos Indians believe that life started here. That every living thing came out of this lake."

Dean grunted, clearly not impressed. "Great. So this lake is to blame for The Cure. Remind me to pee in it tomorrow." His voice sounded funny, kind of strained and too light. Like it took him some effort to speak at all.

In contrast Sam's voice sounded controlled and distant. "It should keep us safe, anyhow. We've got enough food to last us a week, and then we can figure out our next move."

Dean grunted again, a half-hearted, uncertain noise.

Above them hung a dome of stars, blurred by the tip of the Milky Way. Reese had been positively obsessed with Greek mythology as a kid, and knew the story behind almost every constellation in the sky. Right now Perseus was racing in on his white winged horse to save Andromeda from the sea monster Ceto. Perseus had just gotten through with beheading Medusa; he'd kept the head, though, and yanked it out whenever he got into trouble, like at the wedding banquet when Andromeda's ex-boyfriend gave him shit. Perseus took out the head and POOF, turned the guy into a rock for the rest of eternity. The Greeks called him a hero, but Reese had always thought that Perseus was something of a dick.

Mordac bumped against his ankles; when Reese bent down to pick him up, the change in position and elevation alerted him, tickled his eardrums from a different-enough angle that he noticed the difference. He straightened slowly, listening.

"How the hell are we all gonna sleep in the cab? And don't say we'll sleep outside, Sam." Dean audibly folded his arms across his chest, cloth rubbing and creaking with his movements. "You can go all Jeremiah Johnson if you want."

"Wimp," Sam said without any feeling. "We're just gonna have to sleep sitting up."

"Well, who gets the back?" Then, immediately, "Dibs."

"We'll trade it off," Sam said reasonably, determined.

Reese frowned in the dark, distracted. "Can you guys be quiet?"

"Why? What is it?"

When their voices faded, Reese closed his eyes (not that it made much difference in night as dark as this) and listened, turning his head this way and that. And there it was again, that same faint, distant noise. "I think," he said, his heart starting to pound in fear, "you guys, I think there's someone else up here."

There was a breath of pause and then Sam asked, "Why?" at the same time that Dean asked, "Where?" in a tight, furious tone.

"Why do you say that?" Sam asked, winning out.

"Listen." Reese curled fingers tight around Mordac to still his purring. The three of them stood side-by-side and Reese could practically feel the other two straining to hear. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" Dean asked gruffly, afraid and hiding it less than he thought.

"That." It was faint, but unmistakable. "It sounds like a truck. A diesel engine."

"Where?"

"I don't know!" He turned his head around again, searching, but the sound was so faint it was hard to discern its origin.

"All right," Dean rapped out, "everybody back in the truck. Sanctuary, my ass." Gravel scuffed as he started towards their vehicle.

"No, no, wait," Sam interjected. "It's all right. Reese, what exactly does it sound like?"

Reese blinked, startled by the question and by the tone that Sam used – a kind of sharp, excited interest. "Dude, can't you hear it? It's right there. It's a truck, somewhere not too far… 'bout a mile, I'd say."

Sam laughed. Reese turned to stare at him and his eyes had adjusted well enough to see the flash of white teeth, the glint of starlight on Sam's eyes. "Oh, wow," Sam said, full of that same inexplicable excitement. "You can hear it."

"What, the truck? Of course I can hear it, what…"

"No, that's not it. There's no truck, Reese, it's the Hum. You can hear the Hum."

Reese clutched Mordac to his chest. "What're you talking about?"

Sam shifted a bit, a tic of his that Reese had noticed; he did it when agitated or angry or otherwise preoccupied. "There's this noise, and people have heard it all over the world. Bristol, Auckland, everywhere, but the biggest report of it was right here. People call it the Taos Hum. Microphones can't pick it up, scientists can't find a source… nobody has any idea where it comes from. Back in the 90's, the locals started a state congress investigation; they wanted to know if the government was conducting secret tests or something, but nothing turned up. And not everybody hears it, either, only about 10% of the population."

There was another breath of silence in which Dean listened, Sam wondered, and Reese… Reese was afraid. Finally, Dean grunted and turned back to the truck without explanation, pulling a door open.

In the faint dome light, Sam studied Reese closely. "No one knows where it comes from, Reese. It's always just been here."

Reese wet his lips, tasting the cold air and forest smells. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice thin and scared to his own ears.

Dean shut the truck and came back with something in his hands. It had a blinking light and it bobbed around as he moved it here and there. "No EMF," he reported finally. "Whatever it is, it's here naturally, didn't disturb anything else pushing its way in."

"What does it mean?"

The other two didn't answer right away. Then Sam drew in a steady breath. "Some people think it's a form of tinnitus… it's a disorder of the eardrum, makes your ears ring. People that hear the Hum say that isn't it, though; they say the sound definitely comes from outside their own heads. Almost all of them describe it the same way, like a diesel engine idling someplace close."

He paused and then added gently, "I don't know if it has anything to do with you, Reese."

"The odds are weird, though," Dean put in, "if only 10% of people hear it. When'd you read about this, Sammy?"

"At Stanford, when I was studying the Indian sanctuary case."

"You were doing this kind of research at Stanford?" Dean sounded torn between anger and pride. "Here I thought you were trying to be Mr. Normal."

Sam huffed a little sigh in response.

Reese stood there listening to them and listening to the hum. It went on without disruption, a low-level vibration that bordered on a rumble. It didn't sound natural. Mordac meowed, plaintive, and Reese realized that he was squeezing the cat.

Dean cleared his throat; he'd finally caught on to what this conversation was really about. "There's a lot of weird things in the world, kid. There's a place in Oregon where water runs uphill, some dog in England can always tell when his owner's coming home, and people keep seeing Big Foot even after Dad killed him when I was six." He paused, then said carefully, "Just 'cause you're a freak doesn't mean you're the root of all evil or something."

In the dark, it was impossible to tell whether he was talking to Reese or to Sam. Maybe both. Sam didn't respond and Reese didn't even know what to say. 

In the space of time that they'd stood there, the eastern sky had started to lighten. Dean left the two of them standing there and made for the truck, calling over his shoulder, "I've got the back."

-o-

Dean woke up sharply and wasn't sure why at first. Dad wasn't looming around the truck's back seat, the kid didn't have a knife at his throat, Sam wasn't sitting up front… oh, there you go. Sam gone. Where's Sam?

He kicked open the back door without even bothering to wake up all the way. The kid, who'd fallen asleep with his back to the passenger door and his cheekbone propped against the seat, snorted awake to peer at him through watery-bluish light. Well, at least he hadn't cut Sam's throat or something, but Dean didn't trust this Indian sanctuary legend all the way and he slithered out of the truck, dizzy with the sudden surge.

Sunlight glittered on the lake's surface and Dean threw up a hand to shield his eyes. The sun already felt hot on his shoulders and neck; despite the high elevation, he could tell that it was gonna be a hot day. Sam wasn't anywhere outside. Which was okay, okay, fine, he was probably down by the toilet or something. Dean had no reason to be feeling like this, none at all. He strode down to the bathrooms, boots kicking up dust and mayflies from the ground. The bathroom was just a metal shack, really, one of those brown types from the mid-70's. Getting closer, Dean could smell the ripe tang of disinfectant.

He could also see a boot poking around the corner of the bathroom shack, kicked out like the owner was lying down, or had fallen. Dean broke into a sprint, his heart instantly jackhammering. "Sam!" He rounded the corner fast and his feet almost slid out from under him in the loose dirt and gravel.

Sam lurched backward against the side of the shack, watery eyes wide. "Holy shit!"

Dean regained his balance quickly and then stood over Sam, staring, feeling his body go from sixty to zero just as fast as it had started. Sam blinked, then ducked his head to wipe at his face roughly with the heel of his hand. "What the hell, Dean?" he demanded unsteadily.

"I saw your foot," Dean said quickly. His arms folded themselves across his chest then unfolded again. "I saw your foot there and thought...." He trailed off and shrugged.

"Thought what? The mosquitoes got me?"

"I don't know." Even with his bangs hanging down in his face, Dean could see that Sam's cheeks were streaked. He found something interesting on the blank side of the toilet shack and studied it. "Whatcha doin'?"

That was such a dumb question: it was obvious what Sam doing. "Nothing," Sam responded. His voice still sounded fuzzy, though, and the long breath that he blew out had a hitch in it.

Dean's arms did the folding dance again and he transferred his gaze to the ground. He had no idea what to say, none at all. Part of him wanted to run away just as fast as he'd come. Sam's face when he'd first seen it had held such utter misery that the backs of Dean's hands were itching, he wanted so badly to do something. At the same time, everything in him pulled up tight and defensive; misery that thick and deep could pull them both down. "You okay?" he asked lamely.

"Yeah. Sure." And there was that tone, crisp and cut off. For all that he complained about Dean's emotionally-repressed ways, Sam sure had a knack for closing up tight when he wanted to, and making Dean feel like a monumental jackass for even trying.

He still had to try, though. "You thinkin' about, ah, Dad?" Dean gritted out, molars clenched together. Whatever had brought that look to Sam's face, Dean didn't really want to hear about it.

"No," Sam said, then sighed. "Yeah. Thinking about everything, I guess." He leaned his head against the wall behind him and stared out at the water with half-closed eyes. Tears clumped his eyelashes together. "About Dad, the demon, Reese, all of it. I feel like every time we get a handle on things, something comes along and knocks into us. I just… I wish everything would stop. I wish we could just stop, you know?"

Dean tensed, feeling his forearms prick with goosebumps as a chill washed over him. Dad had said something like this, once. A rainy day in Missouri, after a hunt gone wrong and some kid dead in a basement. 'Some kid,' that's how Dean dealt with that episode, those two weeks of futility and missed opportunities; that's the only way he could deal with it at all. Dad had gotten tore up something fierce, drunk and asking strange questions like that one. Dean had been pretty wrecked by it too, but had awoken from a deep sleep to find Dad out in the Impala, passed out in the front seat with a bottle of Jack and a loaded handgun. Sam hadn't been around then, thank God, so Dean had just dragged Dad inside, cleaned him up, and put him to bed. Pulled all the doors shut, put away his own anger and grief so that when Dad woke up, they could both pretend that nothing had happened.

It was all too easy to understand what Sam meant, to sympathize, and that was dangerous. Somebody needed to be the strong one and that had always been him, hadn't it? The one Dad could count on, the one who tucked things neatly away and carried on. "Don't think the demon world's gonna call a time out," he said, trying to make light of something so awful and cringing at the attempt. It came out abrupt, an accusation; he could still remember how badly his hands had shook, back then when he'd dragged his comatose father in from the car. How afraid he'd been, thinking if anything happens to Dad, I'm through. I won't be useful to anyone anymore. "C'mon, Sam," he struggled on, nudging Sam's leg with his boot. "Quitters never get the chicks."

Sam kicked his foot away and scowled. "Jesus, Dean."

"What?" He spread his hands, trying so hard. C'mon, Sam, I'm tryin' here. Help a brother out.

Sam's scowl deepened and he climbed to his feet; Dean could practically see the way his face buttoned back up and it made Dean's chest cramp. He wanted so badly, in that moment, to reach out and shake Sam, to not let this moment slip. To find something, anything to say.

He didn't. Sam straightened to his full height, totally closed off. This moment… this was the one Dean always hated. He'd seen it enough to recognize the complete and utter way Sam could shut him out; Dad had never been able to close his mind to Dean all the way (though recent developments had shaken Dean's belief on that front), and Dean had survived for years on the scraps. With Sam, though, it was all or nothing. Either they were going to collapse together into tears and grief – something that Dean didn't even know how to do – or he would get zilch.

It always left him defeated and hollow.

"You didn't flip out on Reese again, did you?" Sam cut him a sideways look, eyes still red but harder.

Dean coughed a laugh that he didn't feel. "You're gonna make me pay for that one, aren'tcha?"

Sam grunted, which wasn't a yes or no. He turned around the corner of the shack and lumbered up the small hill toward the truck, his shoulders bowed.

Dean stood with his hands dangling at his sides, trying to understand why he felt like he'd failed at something important.

-o-

Along the worn path up to the truck, Sam paused to scrub his sleeve roughly over his face again. Bad enough that Dean had caught him out; Sam had heard the 'suck it up, little soldier' routine many times, but that didn't mean he'd gotten used to it. In fact, he'd kind of made a point not to: he'd admired his brother for many things, worshipped him for a few, but Dean's high-wire act of denial had never been among those things that Sam counted as a benefit. For any of them.

Sam didn't know how to deal with his brother right now, not when they were both this raw and exposed. They'd always dealt with emotions too huge to be felt openly: human beings weren't really made to experience the veering extremes that marked the life of a hunter – fear of losing everything, panic, the adrenaline of victory and the crushing, guilty sorrow of arriving too late to help. So they put their emotions away as best they could, Dean with humor and denial, Sam with small trips to bathroom stalls to release a little of the pressure in the form of muffled sobs.

The trouble was, Dean hadn't been employing any of his usual coping mechanisms. Which meant all that pressure had been building up inside him; small wonder that he'd finally blown.

That moment back on the highway… Dean could really have hurt Reese, or vice versa. It had been Dean in his most basic mode: get Sammy and run, shoot the hell out of anything that might pose a threat. Including a broken-eyed young kid with a knife and a cat.

Sam felt reluctant to deprive Dean of his primal task, but he also wasn't about to let Dean go around pounding people's heads in for looking at Sam cross-eyed. Sam didn't like to imagine what effect that would have; still, understanding that Dean was sinking rapidly under his own grief didn't excuse the matter.

Which left Sam to keep things together and if he was honest with himself – as he couldn't afford to be with Dean – Sam held serious doubts on that front. He'd barely slept at all last night, though not out of deference to the truck's uncomfortable bench seat: Sam had been too apprehensive of another nightmare-vision. Dad had never known about this place, but if the demon… connected to Sam, or however Missouri had explained it, then there would be no stopping it from pulling the location right out of his head.

He'd also spent a lot of the night thinking about the moment when he'd put his hand on Dean's chest and jumped straight into his brother's mind.

It hadn't hurt, exactly; his brain had felt stretched, like the input signals to his senses had suddenly doubled. And then he'd felt Dean crying out in silent pain and terror at the intrusion. Maybe it hadn't been a demonic possession, but it was similar enough to shake Sam to the bone.

Dean had guessed wrong: Sam hadn't stolen down to the bathroom shack to work out some grief over Dad. That wall of emotion had yet to crumble; he was still far too concerned with the thing wearing his father's face and the fact that, for a brief moment, he had worn Dean's face.

When Sam finally felt strong enough to lift his head, he found Reese watching him.

The second-youngest member of their troupe stood with the youngest tucked into his shirt; Mordac poked his head over the collar of Reese's jacket to rest his chin on his master's collarbone. Reese stood on the edge of the gravel parking lot cum campground, facing the lake as if he'd been gazing at the water. His chin pointed in Sam's direction, though it was hard to see his expression at this distance.

When Sam got closer, he read apprehension. Fear. A certain grim perseverance.

He also noted that Reese had both hands inside his pockets. Sam smiled a little at that detail with a grimness all his own, and stopped just within hearing range. "Got the gun?"

Reese hesitated then nodded once. His shoulders eased down. "It's not…"

"No, man, don't apologize. If I were you, I woulda shot me a long time ago."

The younger boy closed one eye against the morning sun and examined Sam for a long moment. "And how would imaginary-You keep Dean from going psycho?"

That made Sam twist to glance quickly down the hill. There weren't any sniper muzzles pointed in their direction, and the bathroom door was shut; he sighed low, unable to even come up with a pretend solution. "He didn't go after you again, did he?"

"Naw. Just ran out like you'd been kidnapped by Leatherface."

Sam chuckled, surprised. "Yeah. He does that. He's… protective."

"You don't say," Reese said, completely deadpan. The corner of his lips twisted up.

"Yeah." Sam suddenly felt a deep, sharp desire to make Reese understand Dean, and he groped for the words. "He – he acts like he doesn't care, like everything's fine, even when it isn't. He loved Dad more than anything, more than anyone else."

The sun hung over the lake at a perfect angle to reflect its glare off the water; when Sam closed his eyes against the double-beam light, the backs of his eyelids shown red. "I'm sorry he tried to jump you. He won't do it again, I promise."

They stood for a long moment in silence, surrounded by the chorus of forest birds and humming insects. Finally, Reese answered, "Okay. I'm still keeping the gun."

Sam nodded without opening his eyes. "You eaten yet?"

"Naw."

It was as good a place as any to start, and after Dean's outburst on the road and his own… whatever that had been, Sam knew he had a ways to go towards earning his little brother's trust. "C'mon."


	16. In Which There is Minor Desecration of the Bathing Variety

Sam and Reese sat in the grass right on the edge of the parking lot; Sam kicked his legs out in front of him but Reese seated himself cross-legged, creating a makeshift table out of his legs. After sharing Reese's breakfast of a baloney sandwich, apple, mozzarella stick, Goldfish crackers, single-serving orange juice and a pudding cup, Mordac curled up in Reese's lap, content to laze away the rest of the day in the sun. 

Reese, meanwhile, finally figured out why he liked Sam: he reminded Reese of Timmy. They both had an indefinable little-brother quality to them that came from being sheltered, Tim by Gina and Sam by Dean. It showed most clearly in their interactions with others: they didn't expect to be hurt. They still thought the world could be a good and wonderful place.

Dean, on the other hand, hadn't come back to the truck after whatever incident had taken place this morning. Instead he'd set out on a hike around the lake like a guard patrolling the perimeter; Reese caught periodic glimpses on him among the trees, picking his way across the uneven ground. 

Beyond him, the pine trees rolled like a spiky green carpet. Blue Lake lay at the trail end of a long canyon surrounded on all sides by peaks and valleys. On the Northeast bank, a long sloping hill rose up to the sky and exploded with yellow flowers. There was nothing visible beyond its peak except clouds; squinting at its ascent in a certain way left Reese with the impression that if he got to the top of that hill there would be nothing on the other side, just the edge of the world. He could see why this place held mystical power for the Native American Indian Land Bridge Immigrants.

He could still hear the Hum. The volume had decreased in daylight, but all through the night it had been strong enough to disturb his sleep. He hadn't started hearing voices yet, though, so Reese decided to hold off on the screaming nervous breakdown. 

"So why'd you want to be a lawyer?" Reese asked Sam, mostly to distract himself from the distant sound that his brain kept barely hearing and re-identifying as a truck.

"Oh." Sam frowned at his hands. He had mustard on one finger and wiped it off on the stained knee of his jeans. "I, um. It was a solid job, good money, and I already knew that I was good at arguing." He shrugged, his mouth wry. "Plus, I'd broken enough laws by the time I was 17 that I knew the legal code by heart."

Reese watched him, knew there was more. He still had the gun and all of his reservations about what Sam was and what he could do; but in the last week he'd also rediscovered how nice it was to hear human voices. More than nice… _necessary_. It felt like a numb limb that, once wakened, had decided to ache. And it did ache, it _hurt_ bad enough that he'd excuse strange powers as long as Sam kept talking to him. Right now there wasn't anyone else for miles and he certainly wasn't going out in the woods to strike up a conversation with Dean. "And?" he prompted

Sam looked sharply at Reese and he dropped his gaze instinctively to the ground, picked a small hole in the dirt with his fingernail; it occurred to him suddenly that he might be prying. It was hard to remember those sorts of things, a half-remembered pattern that he wasn't quite sure how to recreate once it had been interrupted for so long. The give-and-take of normal conversation eluded him. 

Fortunately, Sam threw him a line. "And I thought maybe it might be useful to Dean or Dad someday. Like… I had this idea that if one of them got in trouble with the law, I could show up and rescue them."

Reese gnawed on his lip, eyeing the grass and wondering what the next appropriate question would be. "You ever tell them that?"

"Nope." Sam's mouth grew sullen; that looked familiar to Reese, too. "Never came up. I said I was going to college and that was pretty much the end of the discussion and the start of the shouting."

A few months before his 16th birthday, Tim had announced that he wanted to quit school and do some traveling. He would have – in spite of Gina's increasingly-frantic threats – if Reese hadn't stepped in and convinced him to at least finish high school. Different angles of approach, same problem: a little brother looking for his own space in the world. 

It occurred to Reese suddenly that _he_ was the baby of this group now. He had no idea why that felt significant to him at all: he'd meant what he'd said to Dean back at the church about how Sam and Dean had never been and would never be his _family_. They were all related, yeah, but there was a big fucking difference between those two conditions. Sam had yet to see it that way; then again, he was the sheltered one. 

Still… it felt so painfully good to _belong_ again, even to a group as deeply dysfunctional as this one. No offense to Mordac or any of the other cats – and Reese had to close his eyes a moment to pray that they would be all right with Thaddeus and Missouri – but none of them had exactly been great conversationalists.

At the same exact moment Reese felt like running for the forest. There wasn't anything in the forest to run _to_ , but it satisfied the deep, instinctual desire to hide, get away, and run that had kept him alive for the better (or worse) half of a year. There was sanctuary from the demons here, if he believed in Sam's stories about the Native Indians; there was not sanctuary from Sam and Dean, and they scared him just as much as any black-eyed monsters. His fear actually had less to do with Dean's near-psychotic protective streak and Sam's weirdo powers than with Reese's own growing, pressing need to have someone talk to him. To know that he was seen, visible, that he hadn't dropped off the face of the planet after all. There had been times back at the church when the feeling of surrealism had gripped him so tight that Reese had wondered if he wasn't in some form of hell. Probably a Greek one like those fifty murderous Danaides, except instead of leaky bowls and a bathtub Reese had salt and doorways. 

When it came right down to it, Reese had no idea how he hadn't gone crazy. It was also quite possible that he _had_ , and no one had brought it up yet for fear of setting off the crazy boy; Sam certainly was the type to politely humor a lunatic. 

And, of course, _Sam_ seemed to be some kind of a whack-job, too.

So here he was, out in the world with these two whack-job not-brothers of his, both of whom were turning out to be five times crazier than Reese – which was a feat – and all Reese wanted to do was _talk_ to them. He wanted to remember how to _belong_ , how to talk to someone, how to not be alone. And that right there was dangerous, wasn't it? He'd done that at the library, and look how well that had turned out.

Oh, Sam was looking at him. Reese realized that he'd been staring into space for a few minutes and startled. "What? Sorry."

Sam paused then repeated himself gently. "Do you want to go for a swim? I could use a bath, and I think that the lake is the best bet we've got right now."

"You wanna _bathe_ in the sacred lake that's the origin of all life?"

Sam had the decency to look a little ashamed, but shrugged. "I won't tell if you don't."

-o-

Dean hated lurking; he had little patience for stakeouts and long-term surveillance. In his mind, every passing minute could mean another dead body and so he was all about the fast fix, getting from point A to point B as fast as possible, even if it meant barreling through a few doors. 

That hadn't quite worked for this particular problem, though, and he pulled back to skirt along the edges, looking for a way to get the situation under control without pissing Sam off again. Just 'cause the kid hadn't shot Sam last night on the road didn't mean that he _wouldn't_. Dean wasn't being paranoid; it wasn't paranoia if they really were out to get you and the kid had taken those bullets for a reason. He had a gun right now, sitting down there by the lake next to Sam and that made Dean's breath come faster.

He snarled and kicked at a tree stump, ignoring the pain that lanced through his foot even through the steel-toed boots. Christ, he needed to get ahold of himself: he felt strung out, like his skin had been stretched, like maybe the doctors hadn't put him back together right and he'd been quietly bleeding all this time.

Sam thought Dean was losing it, was getting out of control with grief or something dramatic like that. Which, y'know… he _was_ , but not in the way Sam thought.

Dad was gone. The Impala, too; it was more than just a car, the old girl had been Dean's only real home for years. Now, the only thing left to him in the world started with an S, had fugly hair, and seemed to have _no_ instinct for self-preservation anymore. Only a month ago he'd tried to chase the demon into a burning building then later threw Dean against a wall for stopping him.

Dean knew how fast it could happen. Hell, he hadn't even been awake when he'd lost Dad; he'd closed his eyes against a yellow gaze and opened them to emptiness. If Sam wasn't interested in protecting himself, then Dean had to do it. Hell, it was practically a life-calling by now. _If Sam dies I won't be useful to anyone anymore_ , and he needed this, he needed to be able to protect Sam. Sam came before anything else, always had.

It occurred to him, in a flash of unwanted mental connection, that Dad had been able to break the demon's hold long enough to order Sam to shoot him. 

He hadn't managed to do anything only a few seconds before, when Dean's blood had poured down the front of his jeans and he'd begged for his life.

Dean reeled back to kick the stump a few more times, wood chips scattering. He was panting when he finally stopped, shaky, and his foot hurt like hell. Fuck _fuck_ , he'd done everything that had ever been asked of him. He'd tried to be strong, brave, whatever his family needed, but when it had finally come down to it, he'd completely failed to save Dad and he was doing a fuck-up job of protecting Sam.

In some small part of his brain he'd always thought that if he kept his needs small he could get by. He'd never asked the universe for money or invincibility or a wife to kiss his cheek and kids to twine their arms around his neck. He'd just wanted to keep three little things: Dad, Sam, and the Impala.

He'd lost two of them already. The odds were stacked against him on the third and – _God_ , he needed to stop thinking. Weighing options, contemplating, and letting people in on his thoughts was Sam's gig, not Dean's. Dean was the non-thinker, the one who shut down and did whatever was right in front of him. The trouble was, Dean had no idea what to do right now and the absence of a task had him idling high, pacing between the tree trunks. He couldn't afford to drive a wedge between him and Sam right now, but the wedge was kind of already there in the form of this extra _person_. Sam was working his own stages of grief in a very Sam-like way, inventing reasons to feel guilty; right now, for instance, he'd apparently decided to work out whatever guilt he'd conjured about Dad by taking extra-special, real-good care of this new little brother. The little brother who had a lot more in common with John Winchester than just a nose.

Dean sucked in a breath. He'd gotten used to stitching himself closed. Earlier he'd been assailed by the memory of his father, torn open by a failed hunt, and only a few minutes ago he had recalled Sam throwing him against a wall for standing in the way of self-destruction. If this kid was anything like Dad, maybe that'd be a good thing: Dean was pretty good at dealing with people preoccupied with their own gooey angst.

His father's eyes glinted in memory. _Even when they're fighting, that's way more concern than John's ever shown you_.

Dean chased that from his mind with a grunt; he drew himself up and pulled all the invisible stitches together. All right, he needed something resembling a game face. He'd go out there and stay on point. He'd keep his mouth shut around the kid and that probably meant keeping his mouth shut around Sam, too, but that was no great loss: he didn't have all that much to say to Sam except _it wasn't your fault_ or _I won't survive you_ , neither of which would make any sense to Sam.

He paused on the edge of the treeline and frowned across the water. Oh fer Chrissake… they were going _swimming_. Sam stood on the edge of the water, his shoes kicked off, standing on one leg as he peeled his socks off.

Sam lost his balance and Dean tensed instinctively, a hundred yards away, as one long arm flailed out. It encountered the kid's shoulder and gripped; Dean watched the kid jump, then still. Sam regained his balance and finished peeling the cloth away from his feet.

Socks thrown aside, Sam waded into the water with his boxers still on, yelping loud enough for Dean to hear. The kid stood on the shore, fully-clothed with his arms folded across his chest, and shouted something back. Their voices drifted across the surface of the water, colored with amusement.

Getting closer wouldn't change the situation, he knew that from experience – and not just the family kind. Still, he circled the small lake as if drawn, feeling stupidly like a child with his nose pressed against the glass. By then Sam had made it out into waist-deep water, kicking up a trail of murkiness in his path; he paused and straightened when he saw Dean's approach.

The kid saw him coming, too, and stilled. He dropped his hands down to his sides, beside the jacket pocket where he kept the gun. Then, slowly, he re-folded his arms across his chest and watched Dean come along the shore.

Dean stopped at a healthy distance from the kid and looked out across the water. "You collectin' leeches?" he called to Sam.

-o-

Sam looked back and forth between them, his palms spread over the surface of cold water that lapped at his waist. Finally he called back, "Taking a bath, actually. I'll get back to you about the leeches."

Dean made no immediate reply; instead, he looked at Reese again. Reese looked back, and the two of them stood on the shore like tense statues, eyeing one another. Sam shifted his footing in the muddy, squelching bottom of the lake, but didn't go charging back to shore like he wanted to. He hadn't missed the small gesture Reese had made towards and away from the gun; he also didn't miss the set of Dean's shoulders, or the tightness of his face that was visible even from a distance of about twenty feet.

Right then, Sam was way more worried about what Reese would do. The younger of his brothers remained a mystery to him but he knew the pattern of Dean's reactions. He'd misjudged how badly Dean was going to take the revelation about Reese's paternity, but he knew the look that was on Dean's face now: that familiar, walled-up expression that Dean had developed during Sam's senior year in high school when Sam and Dad had been at each other's throats. It was all angry resignation and weariness, and Sam shivered from more than just the water's chill.

Dean had used his sojourn in the woods to stitch himself up tighter than thread or staples could ever go. And Sam couldn't squelch the little tickle of relief he felt: for a week– and Christ, had it only been a week since they'd left the hospital in South Dakota? – he'd watched his brother shudder under the weight of their father's absence, wobbling between rage and disbelief, and showing far too much of himself. It had scared Sam almost as much as any demon; Dean hated to be exposed and for a week he'd been wandering around with his insides on display. 

A five-minute visit from the demon back in that diner had left Dean ripped to the core. Sam had no idea what would happen if the thing caught up to them again.

Withdrawing deep into himself and putting up walls was nothing new for Dean. Sam didn't like it, knew it wasn't healthy, but it was Dean's best coping mechanism – his only reliable one. Dean withdrawing behind humor and denial meant Dean could survive and _wanted_ to survive. 

Sam mustered what faculties he could while standing half-naked in water cold enough that his balls had probably crawled up into his body in protest, and called out to them both, "Am I going to be the only one here that doesn't stink?

They both looked out across the water to him and Sam had himself a majorly surreal moment: two young men, sandy-haired, matched in looks as well as uncertain tension. He was far enough away that he couldn’t see the differences in eye color or the extra prominence in Reese's cheekbones.

He was so preoccupied that he missed what Reese said next. He heard Dean's reply, though. "What kind of asshole lives in Minnesota and doesn't know how to swim?"

Reese looked at Dean sharply and Sam tensed; but then, suddenly, Reese put his head back and barked with laughter. "What kind of _asshole_ ," he asked, still laughing, "still quotes _WarGames_?"

Dean twitched as if surprised. It was his turn to speak too low, and Reese's turn to be heard. "It was an 80's cheesefest, man." His arms dropped to his sides again, though without any deadly intent; he looked down at the water.

Sam recovered from his own surprise and called encouragingly, "It's not deep. And it's not that cold."

"Oh, yeah, right," Dean said. "That's why your voice is an octave too high. I think I'd rather stay stinky, thanks."

That convinced Reese: he pulled off their father's jacket and folded it – the gun made one pocket swing heavily until Reese set it on the ground – then reached into the front of his sweater and drew out Mordac. The small cat took exception to this plan, clinging to Reese's shirt with his claws until Reese stretched him out at arm's length. 

Sam looked at Dean, hoping, silently pleading. _Come on, Dean. You don't… you don't have to stay out there._

Reese shucked his sweater, shirt, and socks, but left on his jeans. When he straightened and started to cautiously wade in – with a few discontent noises about the water's temperature – Sam forgot about Dean standing on the shore and stared. He'd thought that Reese was naturally skinny, one of those string-bean type of boys, but now he saw that he had been dead wrong; underneath his clothes, Reese should have been broad-shouldered and square-hipped. Instead, his ribs stuck out and his clavicles looked painfully delicate, moving under the skin as he swung his arms wide to maintain balance. He was gaunt to the point of emaciation, frail enough to seem much smaller than his height would indicate. The six-day-old bullet hole in his shoulder blossomed red against his skin. Below that, there were bruises on his sides in the shape of Dean's knee.

They'd both marked him, wounded him.

After half a dozen steps he seemed to become aware of their attention – because Dean was staring too, eyebrows drawn together in a slashing line above his eyes. Reese stopped dead and his arms came up instinctively, hugging himself, trying to hide. He looked at Sam and then turned to the shore, either checking on Dean or intent on heading back.

Sam flung himself down into the water. It was too shallow to dive far, but he managed to submerge himself with a mighty splash. The murky liquid dove at his skin, poking cold fingers into his armpit, sliding over his scalp. It was chilly enough to drive breath from his lungs and he broke surface again with a whoosh.

Reese was laughing at him. "Dude! Screw leeches, you're goin' for pneumonia!"

Sam bent his dripping head away from his skin and shivered, hoping that estimation wouldn't be proven true, and relieved that he had managed to keep Reese in the water.

When he finally blinked lake-water from his eyes, though, Dean had disappeared from the shoreline.

-o-

The cat got up from the nest it had fashioned in Reese's jacket and followed Dean back to the truck. It slunk along behind him at a safe distance, stopping every time he turned and then stalking him again once he had resumed his trudge. Finally resolved to ignore the damn thing, Dean sat in the truck's cab and rummaged for food among the bags that Sam had carefully organized. 

The cat crouched nearby and watched him through the grass. When he ripped open a bag of beef jerky, though, it abandoned all pretext to scurry across the gravel. It sat expectantly at his feet. 

"Oh, hell no," Dean groaned, staring down at it. He waved his hand irritably and it followed the gesture with wide yellow eyes, certain that he had food _somewhere_. "I'm not feeding you, bitch. Go 'way."

Undeterred, the cat bunched its muscles and leapt straight up from the ground to the top of the car seat, it was a good four feet, vertical, and Dean blinked in surprise. Now on eye level with him the cat bent close to sniff.

Dean leaned away and shoved a small piece of jerky at the pushy animal. "Fine, fine, piss off already." It devoured the meat in lurches, chewing and gulping then darting out a pink tongue to lick its chops contentedly before nosing at him for more. Dean growled, but held out more tidbits. It looked to be a little on the skinny side.

So had the kid. There had also been bruises on his sides from where Dean had hit him yesterday, little purplish marks between his bony ribs. Only midway out into the water, the kid had stopped and hugged himself, looked back at Dean with wide, torn-apart eyes. He'd seen Dean staring at him and had flinched.

Dean had turned right around and walked away, sick with himself. _Christ, he's just a kid, he's just a little scrawny half-starved fucking_ kid.

He didn't regret trying to protect Sam: the kid had taken bullets and he'd looked at Sam like any demon, more than once. That didn't stop Dean from feeling like the biggest asshole alive. Standing in that cold lake water, the kid had looked more like he needed a steak and a blanket than an ass-kicking.

 

Dean pulled in a breath of cool mountain air and blew it out slowly, absently handing another bit of jerky to the cat. The kid had still looked wary, but more uncertain than outright hostile. And hell, they'd given him plenty of reasons to feel that way, between Dean's fuck-ups and Sam's… freak-ness. Dean still had _no idea_ how he felt about that last subject, hadn't dared to open the file on the newest edition of Sam's weirdo powers.

So he and the kid were back to square one, the way they'd been back at the church. _My side, your side, don't get your stuff on my side._

Trouble was, Dean didn't really know whose side Sam was on these days.


	17. In Which Everyone Makes a Decision, But Not Together

Instead of propping himself up in the cab again, Reese elected to drag one of the sleeping bags into the back of the pickup and make his bed there. "You sure you're gonna be warm enough?" Sam asked, looking over the pickup's side to watch Reese get situated. The temperature had already dropped into the low forties.

"Naw, I'm good," Reese answered, kicking off his shoes and quickly sliding his feet down into the sleeping bag. "My shoulder hurts like hell, is all. I just need to get horizontal." That didn't seem fair, bringing up the bullet wound Sam had given him as a way to get his older brother to leave him alone for ten minutes; but if Reese had figured out anything in the last year, it was that 'fairness' didn't exist in this universe.

Distantly heard from his seat inside the cab, his older-older brother snorted. "Yeah, try growin' up inside a car. You get used to it." It was said without rancor, just an observation.

Sam pursed his lips, unconvinced. "Are you sure? It could drop down to freezing tonight… I'll tell you what, the doors are all unlocked. If you get cold, just knock and I'll let you in."

"Okay," Reese agreed quickly, trying to cut off the freight train of Sam's concern. "Trust me dude, if I get cold, you'll be the first to know."

That mollified Sam enough that he scurried to his own place in the front seat. The thick sound of booming truck doors echoed into the near distance, out across the vast emptiness of trees and lake. Then silence descended, interrupted by the constant low buzz of that Hum thing. Which, okay, familiarity obviously _did_ breed contempt, because now Reese was more annoyed by it than scared.

That wasn't what had him breathing a quiet sigh of relief into the stillness. Sam seemed determined to make reparations for recent events, as he'd been solicitous and careful with Reese all day. They'd finished their makeshift bath – which had mostly consisted of dunking their heads in the cold water – with the sun beating down warm on their backs; they'd slogged their way back to the truck and spent the rest of the day drying off and picking stitches out of Dean's chest. Or at least Sam had picked. Reese had stayed at a safe distance, wincing.

Dean had noticed. "Builds character, kiddo," he'd said with a faint smile. "Sixty more stitches and I win a lifetime commemorative plate."

Sam had huffed and shook his head. "Any more and you get a plate in your _head_."

"Aw, Sammy, you've been savin' that one for years, haven'tcha?"

Sam's eyes had flicked up to his brother's face then dropped again to the stitches. "You caught me."

Dean had smirked knowingly and added in Reese's direction, "Sammy never gets the good lines."

"It's _Sam_."

"Ow. Easy there, you butcher. I _like_ my nipples."

Sam had huffed again, louder and closer to a chuckle. "You would. Pervert."

They had gone on tentatively joking with each other across the expanse of Dean's disfigured chest. Reese had eyed them both, especially Dean. He wondered who this new person was, this guy who joked and smirked, and closed up himself up so tight he was probably waterproof.

Now Reese wondered it again as his eyes adjusted to the dark and picked out the stars above. He knew he shouldn't feel grateful for Sam's friendliness, or Dean's neutrality: neither of those conditions had anything to do with _him_ and everything to do with the invisible presence of John Winchester, gone but not forgotten… not even really _gone_ , come to think of it. Reese didn't need a degree in psychology to know that Dean and Sam were both working through some major issues: John was on the tips of their tongues and the backs of their minds. Reese just happened to be the staging ground.

And yet he _was_ grateful. He needed them. A pit had been growing in his stomach the last few days, a small black hole that threatened to eat up his organs; he needed his brothers like a boat needed a lighthouse. More parts of him had decided to wake up and start hurting with a million different complaints: loneliness, fear, grief, all of it throbbed through him until Reese almost wished he could go back to being numb.

It seemed sometimes like other people had faded from existence: those in the past were blurred memories of Gina and Tim and – when he could bear it – Mom; those that surrounded him in the present were no more distinct, barely more than potential vessels for demonic possession. Sam and Dean, though… they were sharp, twin blades that glinted among the haze. They _knew_ what was out there, they carried their guns and joked over stitch counts. They were emotionally messed up beyond belief, possibly psychotic, and exhibited strange powers on occasion; but they made Reese less alone and right now that forgave almost anything.

The fact that Reese was aware of his growing need did not mean that he knew how to stop it. Black holes sucked that way and Reese laughed a little, softly, at his own inadvertent pun.

A cold nose brushed against the underside of Reese's jaw. "They're kinda crazy," he whispered as Mordac settled his chin on Reese's collarbone. "Sam's a lot like Tim, except with freaky powers… he says the demon is after him because he's different, and that's what started all this. But Dean's nothing like Gina."

Mordac twitched his whiskers against Reese's neck. "If Gina thought Tim was in danger or something, and he didn't believe her, Gina woulda yelled and bitch-slapped him for days. All Sam had to do was get me back in the truck and Dean quit trying to kick me out. I don’t think he'll try again."

Above him, Cassiopeia sat on her throne and boasted of her own beauty. Cold air bit at his nose and Reese pulled the Army-issue sleeping bag closer around him and Mordac; it was one of those kinds that zipped up over the head. He had the ugly thought that it could double as a body bag.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted to his feline audience. "They… I don't know if they'll let me stay. I can't go back to being alone."

Mordac made a soft noise that wasn't quite a meow and Reese quickly amended his statement. "I know, I know you'd stay but…" He paused and then turned his face into Mordac's furry back. "They're my brothers. That counts for something, right?"

Mordac had no answer, and after a moment Reese shifted him sideways into the sleeping bag's warm folds, then wriggled out. He was careful slipping over the side of the truck; if Sam heard him, he'd probably mother-hen him some more. He'd watched Gina do it to Tim for years with a hidden edge of resentment. Now, though, he didn't begrudge Timmy an ounce of their sister's protective streak.

The lake looked black in the moonlight, except for the white reflection of the moon scattered across its ripples. A few determined frogs croaked in the autumn chill and somewhere away in the woods an owl called again and again for companionship. Reese dropped to his haunches right on the shore and dipped the fingertips of one hand through the water's surface.

The Hum sounded stronger at night, as if the diesel truck had pulled closer to park right atop the lake. Its low rumble echoed across the water and made him shiver with all the things he did not know, did not understand. Once, he'd thought that he understood the world. Then flames had burned his mother to nothing, and the ashes had settled on a nightmare landscape where demonic forces prowled the edges. Now it had all changed again and become a place of ghosts that saved them, psychics that aided them, brothers that possessed brothers, and weird hums in the dark that only Reese could hear.

Who was he kidding anyway? Alone, he was too small to do anything but get himself killed.

He tried to think back to over a year ago, when he'd been so _ordinary_ ; but it flashed between his fingers, elusive. It felt like a movie he'd seen, or a song; he could remember the chorus, but not the verses. He knew who he was: Reese Miller, son of Kellie, brother to Gina and Tim, student, athlete, musician, mild-but-charming fuckup, and all-around weirdo. But he didn't _feel_ like that person anymore.

The water had chilled his fingertips. Reese pulled them out and curled his hand into a fist, tucked it into the warmth of his body. He had a father, John Winchester, and two brothers, though his presence in their lives had yet to be resolved. He had a cat – or a cat had _him_ , it was hard to tell sometimes. He had a gun in his pocket that he wasn't entirely sure how to use, and he had an enemy that he didn't know how to defeat.

He had a dead mother. And a dead father, apparently.

Reese bent low over his knees. So, he was an orphan now. Reese Miller had felt like an orphan occasionally, left to his own devices by an overworked mother and an exasperated sister. _He_ knew better.

Reese Miller would never have survived the things that he had survived; so, no more of that. Reese felt the change in his chest, the decision being made and he breathed it in slowly as though a too-tight skin had fallen away. He wanted to survive. For a long time he hadn't thought it possible, that long stay at the church had almost driven the hope from him; but now, here, with Sam and Dean… maybe he could find a way. 

It wasn't courage, exactly; Reese had refused to sleep without a nightlight until he was thirteen and he had no illusions about his bravery. This felt more like a _fuck-you_ resilience: he might not be able to kill this thing, but he sure as hell was gonna try to outlive it.

Now he only had to convince his brothers to do the same.

-o-

The sharp pain of his bare foot connecting with the truck's ceiling made Sam wake up. He flailed around the front of the cab as his mind struggled free from the molasses-thick surface of his dream.

No demon… just a woman about his age, sobbing and tearing a man apart with her mind.

He couldn't quite break the dream's hold until the passenger door wrenched open and his legs unfolded to dangle over the side of the seat. He had an awful moment of feeling like he'd misplaced a limb before he realized that the leg _not_ flailing around had fallen asleep.

Reese stood in the open door of the truck and stared in at him. When Sam looked up, the younger boy relaxed a hair; Sam realized that Reese had been checking to make sure that the whites hadn't gone demon-black, or yellow.

Oddly, Sam found that reassuring. It was something Dean never did – sort of silently refused to do – and that had always terrified Sam. "It's okay," he wheezed, struggling to sit up. "Just a vision."

A corner of Reese's mouth ticked upward, though his eyes stayed cautious. "Oh. _Just_ a vision. Great."

Sam paused and then scrubbed a hand over his face, taking the point. "Not about the demon."

"What, then?"

It had to have been one of the people like himself… like Missouri and Thad. Except those two had escaped danger, while the yellow-eyed demon seemed bent on pursuing all psychics aged twenty-two years. _Building an army_ , his mind suggested. The demon hadn't made an appearance in the vision, but Sam had felt it there somehow: a refracted echo seen and heard through the mind of that woman, twisting her up, whispering promises in her ears.

Reese was watching him. He had a somewhat unnerving stare, like the beady watchfulness of an animal. "It was nothing," Sam murmured finally. There was a headache starting, right behind one of his eyes.

A line drew itself in the center of Reese's brow. "Bullshit. What was it?"

The sharpness in his tone made Sam straighten a little, surprised. Reese saw and softened a bit, put one hand against the roof of the truck above his head and leaned there. "Look. I get that you're freaked out to have visions. I don't blame you, it freaks me the hell out, too."

Sam twitched, pulling back on himself instinctively. "Great. Good to know."

Reese sighed and dropped his arm. "Sam. For Christ's sake… it's okay to be scared. I am." He spread his hands wide. "I'm terrified. I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't know how I'm going to survive this, but I _want to_. Way more than I wanna take down this demon. It's killed our father, our mothers, and a lot of other people that we cared about, and I'd love to see the bastard scream, but more than that, I want to _live_. I'm come too far not to."

Prickles and pain announced the return of blood to Sam's leg. He leaned against the seat and rubbed at it absently while he stared at Reese. He hadn't realized just how much he'd equated Reese with their father until that moment when he so clearly _wasn’t_. The boy in front of him had John Winchester's nose and his implacable resilience; but the look in his blue eyes was something that he must have gotten from his mother. Or maybe it was something completely unique – completely _Reese_ – that had survived trauma, pain, fear, grief, rage, all of it. And all of it, alone.

When the moment stretched on, Reese sighed and stepped away; he looked out over the lake and Sam saw the back of his head, the way his too-long hair curled at the ends despite the grease. He remembered the skinny limbs from yesterday and felt a strange, awful pang deep inside himself, like something had used his ribcage for an anvil. 

_Jesus Christ_ , _is this what it's like to have a little brother?_ He wanted to grab this boy and throw him under blankets, wanted to protect him from having to know true evil, and grieved to know that he had come too late for that.

Reese turned back to him, one eye squinted; it was a habit of his, Sam realized. "I'm scared. And I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna survive without you guys. So you let me know when you want to talk, Sam."

He turned and went away across the parking lot without waiting for a response. The small black cat, which must have been loitering near his feet the whole time, trotted after him.

Sam's leg started to cramp in earnest and he cursed, heaving it with both hands to drop his foot on the floor. He'd deliberately slept in an uncomfortable position last night, and the night before: it was hell on his body in the morning, but that was far preferable to falling deep enough into sleep that he might dream. This morning had been an accident, him getting careless with exhaustion: he'd meant to get up and go to the bathroom, but in shifting free of his chosen 'sleeping' position – wedged against the door, where he could only nod off occasionally – he'd slid down with his back flat on the seat and had dropped off almost immediately.

Now he had a half-asleep leg, a sore foot, a full bladder, and the headachey aftermath of another vision. Sam leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees to push the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. 

_Yeah, Reese, I'd like to talk. Let's talk about the fact that apparently I'm a connector rod or something and if I fall asleep, I have a feeling I might wake up as someone else. Let's talk about how that demon's looking for me and I can't_ stop _this thing inside my head short of a bullet. You really want to survive? Stay the hell away from me._

That'd go over well. Reese would probably return to sitting in the corner with a knife and a gun, and Dean… Dean would go back to being messily crazy all over the place. A bad combination if Sam ever heard one.

No, he had to handle this on his own. He doubted that the demon could actually possess him here, but that didn't seem to stop that invisible part of Sam's mind – the part that _it_ wanted – from acting up on its own. He wasn't sure how or why it automatically sought out the other psychics, and he didn't really care; he just needed it to stop. Whatever Missouri had said, Sam knew that he had to find a way to stop this from happening, to close whatever door hung open inside his mind. He couldn't _live_ like this, with or without the demon. He couldn't have a life of visions and accidental possession or connection or whatever the hell he'd done to Dean. He'd find a way.

Right now, though, he needed to get the blood supply back in his leg, and he needed to pee. Sam groaned and heaved himself out of the truck to his feet.

-o-

Shortly after dawn, Dean had gone out and located an old picnic bench on the north end of the camp ground. Cobwebs hung along its bottom and one of the benches had half rotted away, but it would suit his needs just fine. It was about nine but Sam and the kid hadn't woken yet; the days were getting shorter as they moved into autumn, barely nine hours of sunlight. Dean intended to use them as best he could: he'd spent most of yesterday under the hood of the truck, tinkering and swearing under his breath while he kept a distracted eye on Sam and Reese. They'd dragged all the gear out of the truck onto the lakeshore, and did inventory. Apparently Reese had inherited the same OCD-gene that led Sam to organize Dean's tape collection at regular intervals, and Dean groaned at the thought. Still, they'd seemed somewhat companionable: Reese kept asking questions about the things in Dad's journal, and Sam related the stories behind the pages, occasionally glancing at Dean as though hoping he'd join in.

Dean turned away from those glances. Sharing was not something he felt up to right now, much less about their father.

So, he took his guns and his kit out to the table. He cleaned them while standing up, as he didn't relish the thought of sitting down and putting his legs under that table… God knew what lived down there. The other two slept on well into mid-morning and Dean would rag on Sam about it later. Right now, Dean needed the solitude. Had to have time to set himself right again, get things in order before he was ready to face the world.

Of course Sam nixed that idea. Dean sighed when a Sasquatch-sized shadow fell over him. "What?"

It wasn't Sam. "Was wondering if you felt like giving me another lesson." The kid didn't take off running when Dean snapped around, though his gaze did flick at the Magnum in Dean's hands. He was about ten feet away and stayed that way, his hands at his sides.

Dean eyed him, then instinctively glanced back through the trees towards the truck. Sam was beside it, shaggy head bent as he paced back and forth. He was limping.

"I didn't stab him in the leg or something," the kid put in, "if that's what you're thinking. His foot's asleep."

That failed to mollify Dean. "You stole bullets from me," he accused. "And don't tell me you weren't thinking about using them on Sam."

"Actually, I was a lot more worried about you," the kid admitted flatly and Dean tensed. The kid's eyes flickered wide with fear, but he stood fast. "You really gonna blame me for being scared of Sam? I didn't know shit about psychics or ghosts… I only found out about demons a year ago. I didn't know the rest of it even _existed_."

Put like that, Dean could kind of see his point. Didn't excuse anything, though… in Dean's experience, _reasons_ could get twisted as fuck and come out the other side in mass murder. "So now you know," he grunted. "Welcome to the wide wonderful world of demon-hunting, kid. You want my advice? Run like hell." He turned away, rubbing the rag down the Magnum's barrel and hoping the kid would take the point. 

Predictably, he didn't. No, he came right over like he'd been expecting that answer, and took out the SIG that Sam had given him back on the road. Dean stilled, watching through narrowed eyes as the kid laid it slowly on the table and then took three big steps back and jammed his hands in his pockets.

The kid's mouth was set in a thin line against his own fear. "I don't have anywhere else to go. If you're worried about me using these on Sam, or you, relax. You guys are my only shot."

Dean looked between the SIG and the kid. Both of them shone in the sun: his bath in the lake had done the kid's hair some good, though he still pretty desperately needed a cut. He was a lighter shade of blond than Dean, probably brought on by his mother. Dean didn't remember much about Dad's brother and sister, but he knew they were all dark in color, a whole family of brunettes.

He was still Dad's son. This skinny, feral kid with the scared eyes and the stubborn mouth. He was Dean's father's son, Dean's _brother_. His little fucking _brother_ , standing there under the dome of blue sky with the front of his shirt moving because he'd tucked the fucking cat in there again. Dean had brief, fanciful thought that one day the cat might burst free of the kid's shirt _and_ chest like something out of _Alien_.

He put the Magnum down on the table with great deliberation, absorbing the _brother-ness_ of this little cat-freak as Dean circled the table of guns. They lay in obedient rows, calm and resolute. Dean felt like anything _but_ calm and resolute. He'd had a center to him once. The trusted one in the family, who kept everything tucked away and steadied the boat.

This kid had yanked all that out from under him, just by existing. Dean couldn't help but wonder, _is that why, Dad? Is he why you stayed away? You weren't ever going to tell us about him, were you, you were gonna take care of the demon and then let him slip back to his old life._ He wasn't entirely sure that he disagreed with that strategy, since so far, their twisted little family reunion had gone about as good as a baseball bat to the face. Repeatedly.

 _I don't have anywhere else to go_. Dean could relate to that much.

He pointed across the table at the Magnum. "What's that?"

".357 Magnum. Standard issue for cops, but reliability's an issue. Revolving chamber." "How many shots?" The kid pressed his lips together. "Don't remember." "8," Dean snapped. "Kind of an important detail." The kid nodded, his eyes downcast, not arguing. "8," he repeated after a moment. He didn't know shit about ghosts or psychics, barely had known enough to survive on his own this whole last year. He'd done it though, and Dean had to give him kudos for that. "What about that one?" "SIG. Best gun you can go with, good reliability, a little heavy. 14 rounds of .40," he added before Dean could ask. Dean shifted his position a little bit, put the table squarely between them, weapons shining in the sun. "How'd your mom die?" The kid turned to marble, he was so white and still. Dean stared straight into his eyes, not backing down, daring him to look away. 

He didn't. "She burned," the kid said after a moment, his voice hoarse and low. Something like this had to be said quietly. "On the ceiling. We went to a movie together and we'd just got home. I'd started senior year and she wanted to take me out – do something nice. She was proud. She said she was proud of me for sticking through it." He paused, lips hanging open, slack. "I… was the only one there. Gina and Tim were gone, but I was there. And she burned up."

And that, right there – the look on the kid's face as he spoke. Dean could relate to that, too – and he realized Sam hadn't, not for a long time. Sam had never understood Dean and their father, why they fought so hard, why they hunted so endlessly, not until he'd gone away himself and had been brought back by ash.

They all understood it, now. Ash bound them together as much as blood.

"If you ever hurt Sam," Dean began.

"You'll tear me apart. Got it." He didn't look scared, though.

Dean picked up a shotgun, cocked it. The sound echoed loudly off the trees. "Remington shotgun."

"Remington shotgun," Reese murmured back, wiping his eyes and watching Dean load the gun.


	18. In Which Dean is NOT Lurking, Sam is NOT Overprotective, and Hindu Pushups Suck Balls

"Dean." 

Dean predicted Sam's reaction down to the angry stride and the clipped words. It came a little sooner than he'd expected, only a few hours after he'd given Reese a proper lesson in loading, cocking, and aiming half the weapons in their small armory. Sam must have glimpsed some part of that through the trees, because now he stood in front of Dean with a pinched expression and said, "We need to have a talk."

That launched Dean straight into evasion mode. Talking had never fixed a damned thing for him, but Sam always wanted to drag things out of Dean until all his doors fell off their hinges. Sam never seemed to get it through his skull that – for better or worse – doors were practically the only thing propping Dean up. He settled his elbows on the table and cocked his head at his brother. "Well, Sammy, when a girl and a boy, or a boy and a boy, or – if you're really lucky – a girl and a girl love each other very much…"

It took Sam a second to catch on and then he flopped his hands in the air, cutting Dean off. "Oh, God. Bad memories."

Distraction successful. Dean mentally congratulated himself and continued. "Dude, it's not like I wanted to, but someone had to tell you and it sure as hell wasn't gonna be – anyone else." He stumbled at the end; he'd been about to say wasn't gonna be Dad.

That was hard, almost impossible. To remove the existence of Dad from his life, when he'd spent so much time and thought worrying about his father's safety, his orders, his approval…

Dean's mind slithered away from that thought, tucking it neatly into quarantine. Nope. Time to be the strong one again. And now he had two little brothers; he'd have to be twice as strong. Grrrreat.

Sam knew him too well, though, and heard the hesitation in addition to everything Dean had left unsaid. His lips pursed for a moment and Dean switched mental tracks, reformatting plans and strategizing; but then Sam let it go in favor of refocusing on his original mission. And that was just like Sam, always two steps ahead of Dean and willing to use it to his advantage. "I don't think you should be training Reese."

Dean checked for another pair of ears, but did not find the kid nearby. Reese had taken an empty Remington with him to practice putting it to his shoulder and aiming it at tree trunks; the poor trees were probably wondering what they'd ever done to him. "He asked me to."

"You could have said no." Sam folded his arms. He suddenly reminded Dean of the sullen, sarcastic teenager he'd grown up with and had kind of hoped he'd never have to see again.

"Why would I have done that?" Dean flipped open the whetstone and began sharpening his hunting knife. It needed the attention, and also he knew that this was the fastest way to piss off Sam. Sam absolutely hated being ignored, and partial interest was just as heinous. 

"Don't even try acting innocent," Sam snapped. "You never had an innocent day in your life. And 48 hours ago you practically tried to kill him – " 

"I wasn't trying to kill him!" 

" – just for having a freaking knife in his pocket. Now you've given him a shotgun to play with. You wanna explain the reasoning of that to me? 'Cause I'm kind of at a loss here, Dean."

Of course he'd ask for reason, when all Dean had was emotion, him looking at the kid's eyes and seeing something like a reflection, looking back. That wasn't something Sam would understand, though. Time for more evasive maneuvers. "I'm making nice in the Winchester tradition. Be grateful I'm not making him do suicide runs around the lake."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "No, but you've thought about it."

He had. Reese had lost a lot of muscle mass and looked like he couldn't withstand a stiff breeze; Dean would have to start him out slow, but he had plans already. A strategy to distract himself. "Not a whole lot else to do around here, Sammy, unless you got a deck of cards. And then we got nothing to gamble with, except the food. Or clothes, but last time I checked none of us are chicks and we're all related."

Sam had his mouth ready to retort, but closed it momentarily when he caught that acknowledgment of their familial connection to Reese. He studied Dean, who bent his attention to the blade in his hands. "You could try coming down and talking to us," Sam went on after a moment, quieter, "instead of lurking around in the bushes. It's kinda creepy, dude."

"I don't lurk."

"Jerking off behind tree stumps. Whatever."

Dean barked with laughter, always so surprised when proper little Sam whipped out the lowbrow humor. He knew better than to trust it, though: he wasn't the only one with his game face on, looking for trapdoors and flanking tactics.

Sure enough, Sam sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Dean. Seriously. I don't think it's a good idea to show him the guns."

"You gave him a gun!"

"So that he wouldn't leave, Dean," Sam said in that super-patient, this-should-be-obvious tone that always made Dean's hair stand on end with electric irritation. "Not so that he could learn how to kill things.

Dean wasn't up for this, he still felt too raw on the inside. He'd gotten himself buttoned back up but it was a quick job, and incomplete. "So what, you want him to fight demons with a paperclip?"

"I don't want him to fight demons at all." Dean threw him a look packed with as much disbelief and derision as he could manage; Sam, though, just glared harder, like he could will Dean into agreeing. It had never worked before, so Dean thought he should aim for consistency. "He doesn't have to be a part of this. He could still go home, it's not too late."

That struck a nerve in Dean's chest, one of the dozens that hadn't been damaged by the demon's swipes. "'Not too late'? What're we, condemned?" He looked up in time to see Sam's look before he could hide it away, and scowled harder. "You do. You think we're condemned to this life, huh?"

"I'm not saying that," Sam insisted in an unconvincing tone.

Dean laughed harshly, too sore and tired to continue this conversation without something ugly escaping. "Oh, that's right, I forgot: you're headin' back to school once this is all done, right? I'm the only weirdo that likes this life."

"That's not what I – "

Dean cut him off by flipping the whetstone's cover into place with a hard snap. "Whatever. The kid asked me to teach him, so whatever problem you've got, take it up with him."

Sam held fast, losing ground but still in the fight. "He doesn't know what he wants, Dean. He's messed up, in case you haven't noticed."

Understatement of the century. Dean met his eyes and snapped, "So are we, Sam. And I remember you takin' pretty big exception to me trying to protect you from yourself last time."

He climbed to his feet and tucked the knife back into its sheath at his back. He'd thought that Sam looked angry enough to keep arguing, or stomp away – the option that Dean was hoping for – but instead Sam reached out and bumped a hand against his shoulder.

"Hey." And Sam's voice had gone soft, quiet. "Don't do this. Don't close up on me."

Well, that snapped everything up tight in a jiffy. Dean dropped his hands to his sides. "Where the hell did you get that line? You been watchin' that chick doctor TV show again, haven'tcha?"

The softness and concern dropped from Sam's face. "Yeah, Dean," he answered, "because showing any sign of caring about you must mean that I've become a woman. Do you hear yourself sometimes?"

I try not to. "Whatever." Dean cut his hand through the air, sharp as any blade. "We done here? You wanna start something, go bitch about it with cat-boy. The kid asked me to show him how to defend himself, so that's what I'm doin'."

-o-

Sam did, in fact, take it up with the cat-boy. Reese was de-cat-ified for the moment, as he needed his chest free to set the shotgun's butt in his shoulder; his form had improved a lot and Sam did not like that thought, not one bit. The cat, dislodged from his customary position, looked a little skittish at Sam's near-stomping approach but was clearly too proud to run.

Reese saw him coming, too, and squinted through one eye. "Heya. You don't look happy."

It took conscious effort on Sam's part to reel himself in. This boy shared some features with the other two men in Sam's life, but he was not them. He was younger than Sam in so many ways, with his unkempt hair and hands awkwardly clasped around the shotgun.

Being tall was usually a valuable resource for Sam; right now, though, he needed to do anything but loom over his little brother. He took a seat on a nearby log, his foot propped against the half-rotten wood. "You're going back to the gun lessons, I take it?"

Reese rubbed a finger across the shotgun's stock. "Yeah." He watched Sam's face and his short answer didn't seem reticent so much as attentive. Observing Sam's reaction, still cautious. Thankfully, he'd lost some of the feral quality that had haunted his eyes at first.

It was like confronting a wild animal – a cat, Sam's mind supplied, and that added on a whole new level to Reese's affinity for the small black animal currently prowling towards Sam's lap. Sam took care to keep his movements smooth and his voice even, not wanting to startle either of them. "Look, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"You don't think that I should," Reese prompted. "Why?"

Sam had been winding up to launch a flurry of reasons, and was a bit taken aback to be asked so calmly. When he recovered, he said, "I don't think you want this life. I mean… it sucks, most of the time. You're always moving, you never get to know people, the food's crap and so is the money. Add to that, sooner or later you'll wind up with a record. Did Dean tell you that he's a dead serial killer in St. Louis?"

The puzzled, slightly alarmed expression on Reese's face indicated otherwise. After Sam explained, Reese hefted the rifle across his hip – finger straight on the trigger, Sam noted – and leaned against the log beside Sam. "Dude," he said. "That sucks."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, rubbing at his forehead. He had the beginnings of a headache. "Even if he wanted to settle down sometime, he probably wouldn't be able to. It was on the news, got some national coverage. Sooner or later something would catch up to him."

"What about you?"

Sam sighed. "I haven't had any trouble so far, but that doesn't mean there isn't a sheriff somewhere who's looking for me."

A worried line drew itself between Reese's eyes. "What about Stanford? Or maybe not there, 'cause of what happened, but… someplace else, I guess?"

The headache grew in Sam's head, one of those spiking ones. "I don't know. I don't – I can't think any further than tomorrow."

Bitter amusement colored the edges of Reese's voice. "What makes you think I can? At this point I'd settle for just staying alive and screw the rest."

Sam raised his hands helplessly, opened them to the air. "You can't just… throw everything away like that. You could have a life, Reese, you could go to college, join a rock band, do anything you wanted. Maybe not until we find a way to beat the demon, but… sometime." He looked at Reese, the downturned corners of his mouth and the vulnerable way his bangs fell forward to hide his eyes. God, he's so young. Sam closed his eyes against it, felt it burn in his chest like acid. "You remember those two demons that you killed, back at the church?" He doesn't need to have his eyes open to know that Reese shudders in response. "I've done things like that, too. Dean… Dad, we all have. I know you don't want that life."

When he looked again, Reese was hunched in on himself, skinny shoulders bent. A small corner of his mouth twisted. "I don't."

Sam nodded encouragingly. "You don't have to. It's not too late for you."

Reese stared down at the gun for a long moment. A breeze blew between them, around them, stirred the trees. Mordac reached Sam's lap and, after a few encouraging strokes, clambered onto his legs and arched his back against Sam's hand.

"I think that's what Dad wanted," Reese said without looking up. He was crying, but only the smallest hitch in his voice gave him away. "That's why he left me at the church. Is that what you wanna do, Sam? Leave me someplace?"

"No!" Sam couldn't help but reach out, but it was the wrong thing to do. Reese flinched away, eyes bright and wild. That feral animal again, so frightened.

"I lost my mind, Sam," Reese sobbed, face crumpling like a piece of paper in a fist. "You don't know what it was like, being there alone…"

"We wouldn't leave you someplace, okay?" Sam reached out again, slower, and brushed his fingertips over Reese's shoulder before withdrawing his hand completely; when Reese slumped in relief it broke Sam's heart in two. "We'd protect you. We're your older brothers, it's our jobs right?" He smiled as gently as he could.

Reese took a breath and leaned back against the log, tipping his face to the sky. "What, you guys gonna just leave me in the car while you fight an army of demons?"

"We can figure something out, man. I swear," Sam insisted, but Reese was already shaking his head.

"It'd be the same." He looked up at the sky with eyes just as blue. "If I do nothing then I might as well be nothing, Sam. You're right, I don't like it, and I don't wanna think about what kinda person I might become, but I gotta do this. You have to let me do this."

He met Sam's eyes; he looked the same as he had that morning back at the church, when he'd had stood in the doorway and looked at the world outside with sadness that had no end. Sam swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat and wished to God that he had the strength, that he had some way to take this off Reese. His little brother, so young and already lost.

They were all lost, in their own ways. He'd been this young once, and so had Dean.

He swallowed again and nodded, though he knew that Reese did not need his permission, not for this. Sam had never needed permission from Dean or his father; but he'd wanted it. Wanted some sign of their understanding, something to let him know that they didn't think less of him for not wanting the same things that they did.

He could give that much to Reese, even if he couldn't protect him from all the world's darkness.

-o-

Whatever Sam had had to say about the guns, the kid didn’t let it stop him. He trudged back to Dean a few hours before sunset, the shotgun slung across his body and his finger straight on the trigger.

Dean didn’t ask or volunteer his own opinion. He had no opinion. “Show me.”

Reese set the shotgun to his shoulder – which made Dean wince inwardly every time: it was the shoulder Sam had shot and he knew from experience that it would still be sore, a week later. He didn’t let the sympathetic expression show. Besides the shotgun’s all-purpose usefulness, he’d chosen to start the kid off with that weapon for a reason. He wanted to see how the kid would work through pain.

Pretty well, if the kid’s improved form was any indication. “All right. Take it apart, put it back together. You gotta know that baby inside and out.”

Reese made no reply, just sat and bent himself to the task, which both pleased and disoriented the hell out of Dean. Sam had gone back to the truck; Dean could see him sitting in the back, the martyr, probably determined to take a turn spending the night outside in order to protect the kid’s pwecious wittle head. Christ, he’d been hovering over the kid for days. Dean was kind of amazed that Reese had withstood the pressure to lay down his weapons to embrace pacifism and rainbows and flowers.

It bothered him, a splinter under his skin, until he realized that he wasn’t so much jealous of Sam’s protective instinct towards the kid – Dean understood the place of an older brother – as he was irritated that Sam had never taken his own damn advice. Once he figured that out, Dean spent a little while wishing for a time machine and a video camera so that he could attack a teenaged Sam with visions of his overprotective future self.

Not so easy, huh, Sam? Shoe’s on the other foot now – or it will be. Whatever. Shut up and do what I tell you.

Except here was the kid, quietly putting his shotgun back together. Dean knew firsthand the power Sam had over words: if he’d really wanted to persuade Reese, he would have.

Dean had let Sam go, in the end. Not happily, not peacefully, but he had. Maybe Sam’s release of The Protective Death-grip had gone a little more smoothly than the mess that had been Stanford and those silent years; Dean sure hoped so. The last thing that he needed was another floppy-haired angst-ridden beanstalk on his hands.

At least this one was quiet. Dean needed some peace right now, needed it like his blood needed oxygen to keep pumping. Dad had been good at –

Shit. Evasive maneuvers. “You done yet?” he growled in the kid’s direction.

Blue eyes flashed irritably in Dean’s direction, but then the kid slid the stock into place with a beautiful chunk. “Am now.”

“Good.” Dean set down the SIG he’d been polishing then ran his eyes over all the guns as he considered what to do next. He could remember long hours spent at the kitchen table, interrupted by quick sprints around the outside of the house or down the street or through the fields, depending on their current location. Adrenaline had made his hands shake on the guns, but that was the point: he needed to be capable of getting bullets in a gun under any circumstances. If he could have induced blood loss without, y’know, inducing blood loss, Dean would have practiced that, too.

They had a bit more daylight left, and the shadows between the trees had only started to turn blue. Dean weighed their options, then jerked his chin at the kid. "They teach you Hindu pushups on the wrestling team?"

The kid's dismay was almost comical. "Oh, no."

Dean grinned wolfishly, without mercy. "That's what I thought. What's the most you could do in one set?"

Reese scowled, obviously convinced that Dean was going to make fun of him no matter what he said. "15."

"Not bad. You got good core strength, but you've got about half an inch on your arms and legs that you don't know what to do with. Didja have a late growth spurt?"

"Yeah. An inch my senior year."

"Right. We gotta teach you how to use it yet. Tomorrow we'll work on hand-to-hand."

Reese's eyebrows shot up. "We're going to fight?"

"Not yet. Right now you're going to drop and give me as many Hindus as you can."

It took a second for the kid to comply, and Dean allowed himself to imagine all the different ways that Dad would be on his ass, yelling at him to stop fighting gravity (by which John meant himself, that other ineluctable force of nature). Then that, too, got tucked away as Dean stripped off his own jacket and moved around the table to join the kid.

The demon had killed his father; but Dean was the one taking John away from himself, pushing down all the memories until they couldn't touch him. Eventually there'd be nothing of his father left and he'd be able to go on. Dean felt sick at the thought.

The kid sat on his knees beside him, watching and apparently waiting for Dean's go-ahead. Which was good, meant that he could take orders, but was also bad in that he was waiting for Dean to give them. "Watchya lookin' at me for?" Dean growled. "Come on." He dropped forward onto his own hands.

The kid did all right, got through six before his arms started shaking so bad that he couldn't lift himself back up from the downstroke and he hit the ground with a soft, pained groan, holding the flat part of his shoulder. It was two more than what Dean had expected from him.

Dean did five and then stopped and folded up on the ground beside his littlest brother, his arms crossed across his chest and hissing in pain. Sam had taken the stitches out yesterday, the wounds were well on their way to being healed, but it felt like he'd gone right in and torn them all open again. He got his knees under him and sat back on his ankles, breathing hard.

Once he got his breath back, Dean growled, "Five minutes, then we go again."

The kid panted for a few moments, then heaved himself up off the ground to kneel, swaying, beside Dean. He said nothing.


	19. In Which the Boys Play With Guns and Do Talk About Their Feelings (A Little)

After another day of solitude, Dean took the kid out to work with the guns; posture, cleaning, safety, loading, the works. In the absence of fellow campers, they set up a small shooting range on the far side of the lake; there wasn't enough ammo to do a proper lesson, but Dean made do just fine.

The rifles cracked loud and echoing through the canyons around them. The reverberations, each of which produced an identical but progressively-fading gunshot, made Reese's eyes open up wide. "Cool. Sounds like there's a whole army in here with us."

Well, at least Dean didn't have to worry about him getting spooked by gunfire. "Reload." The kid's arms pumped, snapping the forend back and then forward again. The used shell ejected and spun in the sunlight. "How many left?"

"Seven-round capacity, I've shot one. Six left."

"Good." The haircut had made the kid even more fragile; Dean eyed the back of his neck critically, thinking about cheeseburgers and protein bars. "Shoot."

Another crack, and the world echoed it back.

They proceeded through the Remington 12-Gauge ("That's Ash's boomstick!" "What?" "Holy crap. Don't tell me you never saw Evil Dead.") and the Winchester bolt action, which the kid absolutely loved and held like a religious object. His opinion dropped once he shot it, though: Reese burned through three rounds on the Winchester before carefully flipping on the safety and easing the gun to rest on the ground. Then he flopped down on his back with his face twisted up in pain and the heel of his hand pressed to his right shoulder.

"Got a kick on it, yeah," Dean informed him grimly.

"Crap, man. You coulda told me."

"C'mere." Dean dropped to a crouch and pulled the loose neck of the kid's T-shirt aside to check on the healing wound. "Aw, you're fine, just a little bruised. Quit whinin', you pansy."

Reese stared up at him a moment, then shoved his hands away hard. "Don't fucking call me a pansy."

Dean sat back on his heels, startled by the vehemence. "Dude. Take it easy."

"Don't tell me to take it easy, either!" The kid heaved upright, his right arm held close.

The mulish expression on his face sparked an answering irritation in Dean. "Wow, you're a sensitive one. They're just words, kid. Don't develop an eating disorder or somethin'."

Reese's shoulders wavered a moment, then dropped. "I'm trying, here," he said quietly, his eyes on the ground and his hand moving in circular motions over his shoulder. "I'm really trying."

It startled Dean enough to make him pause: the kid sounded genuinely hurt, not just in a whiny you-stole-my-lunch-money kinda way. He'd heard that tone a lot from Sam growing up. Ages 14 to 15 had been rocky for Dean, when he'd been old enough to take care of Sammy on his own but not to go out on hunts with Dad; natural teenage frustrations, combined with the stress of a hunter's life, had unleashed a torrent of sarcastic cruelty that had usually landed on Sam. Little Sammy had been chubby, shy, and already too bookish for his own good, a kind of perfect storm for teasing. Dean had driven him to tears a couple of times and hadn't always felt bad about it; at the time, he'd excused it as a way of toughening Sam up for the hellish world of high school. He hadn't been entirely wrong, either: Sam had learned to push back, to stand his ground and then some.

This kid, though… he didn't respond the same way. Dean turned it over in his head as he bent to attend to the rifle. "Did you and your brother not rough each other up when you were kids?"

That earned him a sidelong glance; as an unspoken rule, they didn't bring up family. "Not really. Tim… he's got some emotional problems."

Dean chewed his lip and sighed as he unloaded the Winchester. "When I poke you, you're s'posed to poke me back."

Silence, and then a finger jabbed into the back of his shoulder. Dean threw him a look, but the kid only grinned. "Couldn't think of a great comeback. Do I, um…do I actually have to shoot that thing again?"

He eyed the gun with great misgivings, but Dean had a feeling that he'd do it again if ordered. Which was good, was absolutely fine; at least he wouldn’t start arguing in the middle of a hunt like some other people that Dean knew. Trouble was, that meant Dean had to be 100% sure of whatever he told the kid to do.

And that sucked, because Dean was pretty much making this up as he went along.

Yet Reese still stood there, looking at him with dogged, weary expectancy. So far he'd done everything that Dean had asked of him with surprisingly little complaint; the kid trusted Dean, and Dean cast about for something to help him know what to do in this situation. Sam had stopped looking to him for explanations around the same time he'd learned to defend himself against Dean's sarcasm; he'd still listened to Dean's instructions, he just hadn't always followed them.

Sam had always wanted to know why; Dean had been far too preoccupied with the how.

Dad had been the one to show Dean the guns, and he'd been pretty ruthless about it; Dean had been too small for the rifles at first, but John had made him shoot in the rain, in the snow when his cold hands had fumbled stiffly. It'd been necessary, of course, especially with Sammy back at the house and Dad getting more and more involved in the hunting world, staying away on longer trips.

There weren't any infant brothers to guard here, except maybe this one. 19 years old. Damn.

Something had been closing in on Dean for the past week. Hell, ever since the kid had come to him at the picnic table over a week ago and said I don't have anywhere else to go, Dean had heard pursuit on the horizon. He'd gotten distracted in the meantime, what with Sam's little psychic attack and the kid's even bigger, reactionary spaz. Whatever this thing was, though, it had him in its sights now and Dean felt twitchy, like a target duck on the shooting range just waiting for someone with good aim.

"Naw," he muttered, distracted. "Go ahead and clear it."

The kid sighed gratefully and took Dean's place beside the rifle when he stepped away. Setting it back against his shoulder with a wince, he yanked on the bolt handle; the round only popped out halfway, though, jammed in the chamber, and the kid threw a swift, guilty glance at Dean. "Crap! Sorry, sorry, lemme fix it…"

Somebody finally took their shot and Dean got hit right between the eyes. The closest thing this kid had had to a father was some drunk asshole growing up, then a handful of days with Dad.

He was 8 years younger than Dean. Almost 9. Not quite enough of a gap, but hey, any port in a storm, and the kid had just given him the same anxious glance that Dean could remember directing towards Dad on more than one occasion.

Aw, shit, Dean thought to himself.

When he came back around to himself the kid was squinting up at him uncertainly. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean exhaled and tried not to groan under the weight of that knowledge.

-o-

Sam had taken to sleeping in the back of the pickup. Over the last few days the temperature had ticked upward; he still slept in a pair of long johns, sweatpants, a shirt, and a sweater. In the morning Dean pursed his lips and muttered about Jeremiah Johnson some more; Reese, though, didn't say a word.

They were probably both glad to have him out of touching distance.

There had been no more psychic hiccups. Or at least, no accidental possession, though if anything the visions had drastically increased. Sam did his best to combat both: he kept his physical distance from Dean and Reese, and at night he flipped the sleeping bag down to let the cold air in. If he was lucky, the chill would keep him moving in and out of sleep for most of the night, deep enough to keep him functional but not deep enough to sink down into the visions that swirled and bubbled beneath his mind.

It couldn't reach him, couldn't get inside. It could still torment him with images of mothers disemboweled, of young people his own age being torn to shreds, or worse, making deals and falling under its sway. And all the while it whispered in his father's voice, dug up every ugly thing from their past for ammunition. And there were plenty: 'If you leave, don't come back,' Sammy. I was drunk, yeah, but I meant it, and I always knew what you are. You're a threat, a danger to everyone around you. Mom, Jess, me – got a bad track record, kiddo, and Dean looks so much like Mary, y'know that? Same coloring, same eyes. I tell ya,, when I closed my eyes they both felt the same, too…

They had had too much history, Sam and John. Too many shouting matches and biting asides for Sam to shrug it off now. Not all of it was meant for him, though: Dean, with his white horse disguised as a black muscle car, would twist himself into a pretzel if he knew how many people the demon was ripping through. Using their father's body to kill.

So, Sam kept the haywired activities of his own mind to himself.

Dean had discovered his own ways of coping, most of which revolved around teaching Reese some new and deadly talent. Today they were shooting, and Dean had scowlingly told him to find a spot and stay put there; apparently he didn't trust Sam not to wander into the crosshairs of their makeshift shooting range. That suited Sam just fine: he was too exhausted from nights of fitful sleep to do much more than sit all day anyways.

From his seat in the pickup's bed, Sam could see down to the glittering water and beyond through the canyon. He glanced at it periodically throughout the day to give his eyes a break; Sam had spent most of the day copying entries of John's journal into the blank pages he found in the back. He was just re-printing details about the call of a siren – adding a little note of his own about which brands of earplugs worked better than others – when Dean trudged out of the woods, weighted down with gear. "Hey. You wanna get your nose out of the book long enough to gimme a hand?"

Sam set the journal aside and stood in the truck's back, accepting the duffel bags that Dean handed up to him and laying them on the bed beside his sleeping bag. "You guys do some proper male bonding out there? I think we still got some beer cans, you could squish them against your foreheads."

Dean squinted up at him, frowning. "Yeah, and you could come out and join us for once, Crazy-Cat-Lady."

Mordac had taken up residence beside Sam's knee sometime this morning, and was stretched out on his back in the sun. "I thought Reese was the Cat-Boy."

"He is. You're the Crazy-Cat-Lady who never leaves the house, never talks to anyone, and gets eaten by her pwecious wittle furballs after she croaks."

"Naw, I'd teach them all to be evil minions in my plot of world domination."

Dean laughed, loud and genuine; a little knot unraveled in Sam's stomach that he hadn't even known was there. The moment's respite passed, though, when Dean sobered and asked, "Speaking of evil minions and world domination… you, ah, gettin' anymore visions there?"

Sam moved the duffels around, re-situating them.

After a moment, Dean sighed. "Swear to God, between you and the kid… c'mon, man. Don't do this silent-treatment thing; I know you haven't been sleeping. I'm tryin', man, I really am, but you gotta help me out."

Sam straightened, momentarily shocked by how tired Dean sounded. "It's just… the same. Nothing's changed, Dean."

"So it's still in…" Dean waved a hand, looking suddenly like he regretted bringing it up.

"In Dad, yeah," Sam croaked, his throat suddenly closing. He swallowed twice, forcing it down because he was not doing this. They were getting better, they were healing. Dean's face had gone tight, mask-like, and Sam pointed at him. "Don't, Dean."

Dean struggled, thumping the side of his fist against the truck. "We can't just – I'm not talkin' about killing it, Sam. I'm talking about Dad. About his goddamned body."

Sam's stomach was one solid knot, like a lump of swallowed paper. "Holy water didn't work, remember? I'd bet a normal exorcism wouldn't, even if we could find the damn thing. If you got any ideas, I'm open to suggestions."

Dean swore viciously and swung away to stare out over the water. Sam watched the back of his head and bit his lip. "I'm re-writing Dad's journal. Y'know his chicken scratch – we can read it, but Reese…" He swallowed, cleared his throat. "Don't want him using rack salt on a ghost."

It was an in-joke: until age 4, Sam had been completely incapable of saying "rock salt." Dean laughed softly into the air.

Sam swung his legs over the side of the truck and landed beside Dean in the dirt. His brother didn't turn, but Sam moved to stand beside him in the light of an Indian summer that smelled of pine trees and a whiff of sage blown in from the desert beyond the canyons.

"We lost Dad," Sam said, and felt it for the first time, really felt it like a sliver of glass poking into his heart. Beside him, Dean did not move, just stood with his hands on his hips and his gaze straight ahead; Sam knew better than to turn to him, or to say anything more.

For the first time that he could remember, Sam was the one to walk away from a difficult conversation. They both had themselves stitched up tight against the loss, holding it in, and Sam had no desire to tear a new scar in them both. He could only hope the old wounds would heal into tougher, thickened skin that would not bleed so easily.

-o-

The thick tread of boots came down towards the water, then skidded to a halt. "Is it my turn?" Reese asked without looking up.

"What?"

"We go in turns – none of us talk to the other two at the same time. If we all talked at once, the universe'd probably explode. Case in point…" He straightened and closed one eye, indicating it with his thumb. "I'm partially blind in this eye. Have been since birth."

A startled, worried line drew itself between Sam's eyebrows. "That's why you – how do you shoot?"

"Not too well." Reese nudged a toe at the symbols he'd been scrawling in the damp earth beside the lake; Dean had shown him the forked Elhaz and the bent Kenaz, protection and healing. "I thought I should tell one of you, in case, you know, we're ever in a tight spot and it gets to be a big deal. And I didn't want to tell Dean."

It was an offering, an open door; it was also true. Reese had clawed and bled and done goddamned fucking Hindu pushups every morning and evening for the past week to earn Dean's grudging approval. He wasn't about to toss it all aside because of a little optic nerve hypoplasia.

Sam's heavy tread resumed and Reese tensed without raising his head; he fought the impulse to move away. Fortunately, Sam had the same thought, because he circled around the symbols – and Reese – carefully until he reached the algae-colored shore. "All right," Sam said at last. "Anything else we need to clear up?"

The words sounded sharp, but the tone didn't. Reese took a breath and pushed it a little. "It's kind of your turn. Tell you what," he went on when Sam didn't speak, "you wanna talk about the visions?"

Sam stiffened. "The last time this topic came up," he replied, fear roughening his voice, "you went catatonic for about two hours."

Reese stared at the ground, then drew a small, criss-crossing Othala with his foot. He and Sam had avoided contact for almost a week, skirting around one another physically in much the same way that Dean and Sam evaded things emotionally.

Those two would go on being afraid and letting it eat them up rather than acknowledge any of it; for whatever reasons, they had learned to believe that naming their fear gave it power.

Reese knew better. He had been alone with his worst terror for a year, and it had almost drowned him.

It wasn't entirely fair: Reese only knew what he did under duress, from when Sam had wandered into Reese's brain and left tracks like an animal. Dean had probably seen into Sam during his own encounter, too, and simply refused to say it aloud… and maybe that had worked for them all these years. Reese didn't know for sure and God, he hesitated a moment, uncertain; they had survived this long, hadn't they? Maybe they were in the right of things and it was better to keep quiet and not force the moment to its crisis.

Except they hadn't survived this long. They'd lost one, their father, who had trained them to spar and hunt and never to speak their terrors out loud. John had had his reasons, Reese didn't doubt that; but he only saw the way that everything silent had grown to push them apart, like tree roots that cracked and bulged a sidewalk.

Reese didn't know the Ballet of Denial or its intricate moves, so he blundered right in. "You're never gonna be normal. That's what really scares you."

The way Sam's head snapped up told Reese that he was right; it also made him take an involuntary step backward, but then he steeled himself and went on. "The rest of it, you can deal with. Demons, possession, werewolves, ghosts," he couldn't help laughing a little, amazed and scared, "you get all that, you can deal, whatever. This, though… this is in you. It's not out there." He waved his hand abstractly over the lake, the dark spaces between the tree trunks, the Hum that Reese had to keep reminding himself only he could hear. "It's part of you. It's not something that you can leave behind, even if the demon dropped dead tomorrow."

Sam's shoulders dropped like he'd lost all his air in a rush; he followed the path of Reese's hand with his eyes, and landed on the dark field of trees. Another night had begun to curl around the edges. The days were getting shorter and Reese told himself again, October, October. You can't stay here forever.

A sense of finality was gathering, just as surely as nightfall; it pooled right in the middle of his spine. They had to be ready. They had to be.

Reese refocused on Sam, who stared out at the hillsides around them with wide, flat eyes. Every night for the past week, Reese had been awakened by faint, stifled cries and thumping in the rear bed of the truck; from the sound of his breathing, Dean had woken up more often than not, too. Sometimes he'd kicked the back door open and slid out for a few minutes, only to return with cool air clinging to his body and a faint grumble on his lips.

The lines of Sam's face belonged to someone much older – their father, maybe – and the deep weariness had no right to be in any of them. "You can't talk about it with Dean, right?" Reese went on, watching the bruised skin under Sam's eyes. "You never did, and now you don't know how."

"When did you get so smart?" Sam murmured.

Reese tried not to take offense; he knew Sam didn't mean it that way, the same way he knew that Sam had only ever fought against their father so hard because Dean never had. "I saw you too. You looked at me and I looked back." When Sam flushed and looked away, Reese paused in the middle of drawing Ansuz with his foot. "You so do not get to be embarrassed by that."

Sam didn't quite meet his eyes, but smiled faintly. "You freaked out pretty bad when it was your turn. I smell a double standard."

"Fine. If you're going to convulse, though, go further away. Dean'll accusing me of poking you."

That earned a laugh. Reese relaxed a hair more, then said carefully, so carefully, "I asked you before to tell me about the visions. You still could."

Sam looked at him, really studied Reese's face like he could slip past into his mind. Reese suppressed a shudder at that thought; he couldn't afford to shut Sam off right now, the way Sam and Dean shut each other down without even meaning or trying.

It seemed strange, that two such connected people could be so afraid to know how the other one felt.

They had something that went past brotherhood and landed in the realm of mystical; at this point Reese wouldn't be surprised to find out that they had always shared a psychic bond and lived inside each other's headspace. That would certainly explain, rather than severe emotional repression, why Dean wasn't freaking out about being fucking possessed by Sam.

It occurred to Reese, too, that he might never be a part of it. Whatever livewire current ran from Sam (and all that he was and felt and meant) to Dean and back, it was a closed circuit; Reese would always be on the outside, with the rest of the world.

He would accept that, eventually. He had to; he had nowhere else to go.

Sam had the look of a stray cat that had been offered food, wary and yet wanting to believe. Reese drew the Isa's straight, powerful line and said, "I'm not running off. And I'm not freaking out, at least not yet. So why don't you tell me about it?"

-o-

Around the week-and-a-half mark, a big pickup with a camper on top rolled in on the far side of the campground: a pair of middle-aged adventurers popped out and waved cheerily, but thankfully did not approach. Sam waved back; Dean watched them cautiously like guard dog on point; Reese hid on the other side of the truck and held his cat to his chest.

"They have fannypacks," Dean muttered with great affront, trying to ignore the worried flutter of his heart.

"I think they're cute." Sam leaned against the side of the truck. "Maybe they'll give us food if we ask."

That was a little dig on Sam's part: they didn't have much food left. Dean constantly bitched at Reese about eating more than his fair share, even as he shoved his pretzels in the skinny kid's direction; Reese, irritated at the mixed signals, had snatched the pretzels up and stomped off.

Dean's fear didn't actually have a whole lot to do with their new neighbors. Sam had had four visions in the past two days; his eyes were bloodshot and crusted with salt at the edges. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eyes and felt the worried flutter return and strengthen into something that he really needed to worry about.

Sam apparently felt him looking, because he spoke without turning towards Dean. "I'll be all right. It can show me things, but that's it. I'm not really worried about anything else."

Dean eyed him and wondered if that was really true, and if so, then how in the hell did Sam expect him to take that as reassurance? "Look, ah… how're you sure? I mean, that it can't… do anything here?"

Sam didn't answer; after a moment, Reese did. "It tried to, but it couldn't. It can force him to see stuff, but not to get inside him, not here."

That took Dean's attention off his growing unease in a hurry and focused it on another, even more unpleasant emotion; he looked back and forth between Reese and Sam then shoved his hands in his pockets. "You guys, uh, talk about that?"

A quick flicker of some unidentifiable emotion passed over Sam's face. "A bit, yeah," he answered, glancing sideways at Dean. "Look, Dean, someone can go get food, or we can draw straws to see which one of us we eat first."

Dean briefly considered pointing at the cat, then discarded the idea: the kid wasn't that great a shot, but he could throw a mean headlock. "Okay. Kid." He took the keys out, chucked them in Reese's direction. Reese threw up a startled hand – the other was occupied with holding the cat against his chest – and clumsily batted the keys out of midair to the ground, like he was spiking a volleyball. Dean rolled his eyes and retrieved them, handed them over. "There's a convenience store twelve miles east on the highway."

Sam and Reese both stiffened; Sam got in first. "You are not sending him out there alone."

"Okay, then, string-bean, we'll eat you first."

"Dean."

"What? You're the one that said it wouldn't find us here." Dean leaned back against the side of the truck. Truth be told, he hated the idea of sending the kid out there, but he'd be damned if he was going to leave Sam alone, sanctuary or no sanctuary, especially with these shady-looking fanny-pack-wearing campers on the other side of the parking lot. He jerked his chin at Reese. "Look, just relax. You'll be fine. Take a shotgun with you."

The pallor of Reese's face gave him pause. Sam turned on him sharply. "He can't – Dean. It's not a good idea for any of us to go alone, but especially not Reese."

"The kid'll be fine, Sam. Jesus. Relax."

In the corner of his vision, the kid twitched just a little. "Wow. I guess I know where I fall in the lineup."

Dean scowled, surprised and a little stung. "Dude, don't give me that. I'm letting you drive. Ask Sam how often that happens. Get going."

"Fuck you," the kid snapped. "I'm not your servant."

"Guys, c'mon – " Sam began, rubbing at his forehead

"No, you're the youngest." Dean straightened his shoulders unconsciously, a soldier's stance. "You're the one that's all about training and getting ready. You tellin' me that you're too scared?"

Reese flinched and glared at him, a moment of deep hurt covered over with anger. "Suck it."

"Oh, yeah, brilliant," Sam broke in, heated. "Let's argue and bitch at each other and do the demon's work for it."

That was a dash of cold water in all their faces, if only because of how seldom they named their pursuit aloud. Sam sighed and held up his hands. "I'm staying. I have to. It'll… you guys both go."

"No reason for both of us," Dean said instantly.

"Then freaking paper-rock-scissors for it!" Sam exclaimed

"I can't drive stick," Reese blurted, glaring at the keys. In the longish pause that followed, his ears turned bright red. "Gina never had time to show me how."

He looked at Sam instead of Dean, appealing; Sam looked at Dean.

Dean groaned inwardly.

-o-

They both went, eventually. Dean looked irritated and uneasy, while Reese had the countenance of a cornered animal: chances seemed good that either Dean would panic and punch someone or Reese would panic and slip away either physically or mentally.

Sam sighed as the truck passed out of sight. If Reese panicked, he'd be all right: Dean had been the one to pull Reese out of his fugue last time, and relearning how to exist in a populated world seemed as important to Sam as any weapons training. If Dean was the one to panic, Sam could only hope that a bit of the protective instinct that Dean had always demonstrated towards younger siblings would keep Reese from being the one that Dean punched.

Either way, it was better than one of them going off without the other. Dean could take care of himself most days, as long as he had someone else to take care of. The prospect of Reese alone in the world was unthinkable: from what he had told Sam about his time at the church, even the demon didn't scare him as bad as being alone.

If being alone or the presence of the other campers scared Sam, he was too tired to dwell on it: he waved to their neighbors again as he took a narrow dirt path off from the parking lot. The cat trotted behind him. Reese had left him behind, and if that wasn't an ultimate sign of trust then Sam didn't know what was. He walked slowly, letting the animal keep pace.

The trail went up onto the flat hillside of bright yellow flowers above the lake. It looked like something out of "The Sound of Music. Sam looked around at the golden sea, then glanced back at his entourage. "Don't know if you can sing. I can't carry a tune."

The cat merely blinked at him, seated on its haunches. It looked even darker among the flowers, like a little black hole among stars. Sam smiled at the visual.

When he turned around to face forward again, he was in a vision. There was no warning, no pain or soundless mental explosions this time. He might as well have turned on a movie.

The demon was laughing. Oh, Sammy. You sent them away? You shouldn't have done that.


	20. In Which There Is Driver's Ed And Threats of Extreme Violence

The kid stayed pissy and quiet all the way down the mountainside, which suited Dean just fine; he didn't trust himself not to start something if only to distract them both from the way his hands shook on the wheel.

They didn't have any cell phone signal up here in the mountains and he hadn't been this cut-off from Sam since Dad.

He was dealing. He totally was, whatever Sam thought; he just…needed to go slow, piece by piece, like taking small bites instead of shoving a whole cheeseburger down his throat and choking or getting a stomach blockage or whatever. Sam was all or nothing: he always wanted to hash everything out at once, leaping headfirst into the water while Dean stayed on the shore with his toe in the shallows. Somebody needed to stay close to dry land in case Sam started wallowing in his angst.

And that was a pretty good metaphor– see, college boy, I can do it too – for what it felt like, complete with the possibility of drowning if he went out too far, too fast. So, baby steps. Test the water. For instance: Dad, Dean told himself sternly, will never drive this truck again. The steering wheel felt rough under his hands, leather torn a little where Dad would have gripped it again and again and again; Dean ran his fingers over those spots unconsciously, then stopped himself when his hands started to shake.

His throat felt thick and Dean cleared it. The kid glanced over at him, lingered, then looked away again.

Dean sighed inwardly. Without Sam to intervene, he had serious doubts whether he and Reese could have a civilized conversation that didn't involve the intricacies of a lever-action shotgun. Still, here they were, and that seemed to be their new family motto: here we are, none of us want to be here but this is what we've got. Dean wanted nothing better than to get back out on the road, get moving again; Sam apparently had his heart set on going back to college; and who the fuck knew what the kid wanted? Not him. Sam did, probably. The two of them seemed… chummy.

Oh, yeah. No repressed hostility there.

Here we are, he reminded himself. This is what we've got. "Look, Reese – " Dean shifted, trying to figure out how to handle this: if this was Sam, he'd toss a joke and they'd spend a few minutes batting mockery back and forth between them like a tennis ball; if Sam didn't hit back, then Dean would pull over and give something up – admit to being scared or reckless or whatever was pissing Sam off at the time.

The kid, though, didn't know the rulebook. So it wouldn't do a damned bit of good to keep pounding him with it.

Reese watched him, mouth pursed and uncertain. "I didn't mean to bitch you out back there," Dean said. "I'm just – look, in case you haven't noticed, Sam's not sleepin' much. Now, maybe he's told you what's going on inside that freaky head," and he couldn't help the little note of resentment that crept in, "but whatever it is, it's got that yellow-eyed demon all hot and bothered."

The kid huffed, a tiny exhalation. Dean cocked an eyebrow, waiting. "What?" he finally prodded.

"You. You won't talk to Sam about stuff, but you get jealous if I do."

Dean flushed and scowled. "No, I don't."

"Oh, so that's not what's going on here?" Reese dropped his voice and changed his cadence to something resembling Dean's. "'Hey, kid, leave the nice, safe place and go get us food. I'll stay here with Sam.'"

Dean gaped at him and it was the kid's turn to color and turn away. "Is that what you really – "

"Never mind," Reese broke in quickly, quietly. "I know it's not gonna change. I mean, you didn't even know I existed until a couple of weeks ago, I don't expect you to… treat me the same, or whatever. Just." He scrubbed a palm over his face, into his shorn hair, then dropped his hand into his lap and stared down at it. "I just really wanna stay alive, here."

Dean was silent for a long moment, then said slowly, carefully, "Do you actually think I'd let you get killed just to protect Sam?"

The kid didn't answer, but the oh, come on look that he threw Dean spoke volumes.

It popped in before Dean could stop it, snaking from beyond the caution tape and warning signs; the memory still sharp enough to gut him, all silver-bright and deadly. Sam? He's clearly John's favorite. Even when they're arguing, that's way more concern than he's ever shown for you.

If they lived through this, Dean was going to get standing-down-falling-up drunk, with as many women as he could convince to join him. He thought about trying to explain to the kid that demons couldn't just find anyone they wanted to, that unless you did something to draw attention – like have weirdo psychic powers – it was damned hard for them to pinpoint your exact location. The yellow-eyed demon might be able to find Sam; he and Reese, though, were needles in a human haystack.

Sam would sit there and explain it to him; Dean, though, didn't have Sam's trustworthy face. Dad, he'd have ordered Reese, just like Dean had tried to do back up on the mountain; it had felt like the right thing to do at the time, the only thing that he could think of. He'd become his father, for a moment.

Dean had no idea what to do with the uncomfortable cramp he suddenly felt. Dad, he thought suddenly, will never give another order.

He stopped the truck right in the middle of the highway, not slamming the brakes but not puttering to a still either. The kid's eyebrows rose, first in question and then in alarm. "We're… not having another roadside smackdown, are we?" he asked with a lopsided smile, but he looked half-serious.

Dean snorted and got out, walked around to the other side of the truck. "Move over," he instructed, yanking open the kid's door. "You need to know how to drive a manual."

If possible, Reese's eyebrows climbed a little higher. "You're teaching me to drive stick? Now?"

"Move yer butt," Dean grunted, already climbing inside and nudging at the kid's knee. Reese finally went, eyes still on Dean's face as he slid awkwardly behind the steering wheel.

As he settled on the passenger seat, Dean said quickly out of the corner of his mouth, "It can't find us here, man. I mean, unless we summon it or something stupid. Other than that, we're good." It wasn't a direct apology, but he hoped the kid had some experience in guy-communication. Otherwise, he and Dean were in trouble.

Reese watched him get buckled in, then said just as quickly, "I know, Sam told me that already."

Dean stopped and stared at him. "Then – so why the fuck were you so freaked out about a damn grocery run?" He threw his palms up into the air. "I mean, we need to eat, dude."

The kid's eyes slid away again, but for an entirely different reason. "The restaurant. In Kansas. Remember?" His shoulders hunched around his chest, small and defensive. "I…I can't deal with… people, I guess. I can't help it. And I know, I know it's stupid," he went on quickly, eyes darting at Dean, "and I didn't want you to know and I didn't want Sam to tell you, either. It's just…" He shrugged helplessly, eyes fixed on the odometer.

His ears were bright red again. They'd have to do something about that, or nobody would ever buy the 'federal marshals' cover again. Not that they would anyway, 'cause when he and Sam showed up together they were partners, no problem, no question as long as they kept up the front; but what kind of federal marshals worked in trios?

The kid's whole face was red by now, flushed with what looked like shame. The truck idled beneath them and Dean listened to it for a moment, trying to think of what to do, what to say. Sam would be sympathetic and talk for about half an hour about trauma and how Reese needed to let go of whatever; Dad would… well, he wasn't exactly sure what Dad would have done, because Dean could not imagine confessing something like that to his father.

Dad will never tell me again to suck it up and be strong.

Dean sighed a little to himself, wondering why things could never be easy or simple. Pitching his voice at a steady, even level, he said. "The far-left pedal is the emergency brake. Don't touch it unless I start yellin', but push it all the way down if I do. The middle pedal is the clutch. Right is the gas."

The kid didn't move and then his head ducked in the corner of Dean's vision, looking down at the pedals. Dean kept his gaze squarely on the dashboard, giving Reese plenty of time to get acclimated. This, at least, was comfortable territory: he'd done this with Sam, all those years ago after an overnight growth spurt had finally left those stick-legs in reach of the pedals.

If he closed his eyes and ignored the different sound of Reese's voice, he could almost pretend that this was then, that Dad was alive and Reese was a fifteen-year-old Sam who would understand that when Dean made jokes about his own mortality, he was really trying to tell Sam Hey, I've got you. We're okay.

Dean kept his eyes open; Reese was not Sam. And Dean wasn't John, either, for that matter.

"Put your left foot on the clutch and your right on the gas pedal." He listened to the faint thuds of the kid's ragged sneakers as they settled and took a deep breath. "Okay. You're going to grind the gears a lot and possibly kill the engine several times and there'll be a lot of jerking around. I'm going to lose my temper with you about that." He flopped a hand in midair, still studying the dashboard. "How're you going to respond?"

The kid blinked at the windshield then closed one eye – he couldn't see out of it and thought Dean hadn't noticed – to squint at him. "I'll… probably yell juvenile insults and take things way too personally."

Dean nodded grimly. "All right. Let's get it over with."

Actually, the kid didn't do half-bad. There was a flat stretch of highway just below where the dirt road branched off up to the campground: Dean made him drive back and forth on it, inevitably dying and restarting on the turns. Reese's white grip on the steering wheel eased a bit and Dean even switched on some Lynard Skynard, lower than he usually played it.

The kid threw an eyebrow and Dean growled, "Don't you start."

"What?"

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "What kinda music do you listen to? If you say Coldplay, I'm takin' the wheel and driving us off a cliff."

The kid didn't answer for a moment, focused on making a 180 turn back onto the straightaway; the truck shuddered a little but did not stall. "Blues, mostly. Should I aim for a tree?"

Dean chuckled, sprawling out in the seat now that he knew Reese wasn't going to blow up the engine or something. One of the cuts on his chest pulled a little bit: it had started to grow scar tissue and every morning he spent about ten minutes just stretching, trying to keep the healing skin from getting stiff. Other than the slight loss in mobility, though, he actually felt pretty good.

Good as could be expected. His stitches, both literal and figurative, had held; he'd gotten across the string-bridge to the other side, to a place that almost felt… well, not great, but normal, able at least to slip past that stage of sick panic when all he'd been able to think was Don't take Sam, too. It had faded, thankfully, to its more customary throb beneath his skin, still occasionally painful but do-able.

The kid was watching him again, just a little flicker in the corner of his eye. Dean didn't return his gaze, but reached out with one hand and ruffled the back of the kid's hair, feeling the short ends bristle against his fingers. Reese's eyes opened up wide and startled, and Dean thought, Dad will never raise this kid.

In life, it would have felt like a horrible betrayal, but for the first time in his life, Dean felt a little glad that he was not the man his father had been. He recognized the mistakes that Dad had already made with Reese, forcing him into isolation in a misguided attempt to protect him. The knowledge bloomed like something warm in his stomach, a little extra breath in his lungs; he could do right, he could do something good here, if he could only figure out how.

He met Reese's eyes and tipped his head toward the road. "Watch out for the squirrel."

Reese yelped and slammed on the brakes; Dean caught himself on the dashboard and burst into laughter.

It took a moment for the kid to catch on; then he bellowed, "You asshole."

-o-

Now then, the demon purred. Where were we?

Like a swimmer in a whirlpool, Sam lashed out for something, anything that could keep himself from spinning down. There was nothing, though, just a long tipping fall into the dark.

A bridge. One of the old kind with the green metal beams arranged in repeating triangles. A rope and a weeping girl who fell. She jerked to a stop and the crack of her neck echoed like a rifle-shot in the mountains.

Sam tried to twist away but his eyes were not his own and they continued to peer over the rail down at the body as it slowly turned on its rope. That one would have done anything I asked. She wasn't worth the time, though, just dead weight. A big, calloused hand – and he knew that hand, knew it so well, it had held his own small fingers when they crossed the street – reached out and tugged at the rope; the body swung a little faster. See? it chuckled.

He wouldn't beg or argue this time. He wouldn't. That only fed it more ammunition.

It laughed at him, a big booming John Winchester belly laugh and Sam ached. They turned away from the railing and started back along the bridge. It still hurts so much, don't it, Sammy? You held a gun to my head and now you wish you'd done it. You wish that you'd killed your daddy, don't you, because anything is better than this.

It holds those rough hands out in front of its face. Nothing but a meat puppet.

He wouldn't respond. He wouldn't, but a quick flash slipped out: Dean, standing beside the road and shaking like a leaf from his own visitation.

Oh, that's right. Not entirely gone, then: his ghost's still hanging around, for however long I'm walking around in his bones. And I gotta tell you something, Sammy – it put its hands on itself and rubbed – I like it.

Sam gagged and actually felt his father's throat convulse. Just a brief, involuntary flicker of control, and then it overpowered him again. Honestly, though, Sammy, I gotta wonder – why does Daddy never visit you? Why does he only come to Dean? I mean, you've always been the favorite, but y'never know, people change their minds…

Fuck you.

Oh, there you are! I thought I was talkin' to myself here for a minute. How ya doin', Sammy?

All right. Two could play at this game. Gosh, I'm great, Dad. We went home with Reese to meet his family and they're all just swell. Reese and Dean are starting a rock band, and I'm going to manage them. I think we'll call ourselves the Demon Killers, whaddya think?

Aw, Sammy. Look at you, tryin' to fight back. Y'know, you always did take after me so much.

Uh-huh. Right. Fuck you. Just because you have Dad's memories doesn't mean you know jack shit about us…

You'd be surprised. C'mon, Sam, you're smart, or at least you pretend to be because hey, that's all you're really good for. So use that big brain of yours and figure it out. I killed Mommy; I killed Jess. Whaddya, think I forgot about you in between? Hell, no. I been watchin' over you your whole life, Sammy. Had to make you stayed on the right path, comin' my way…

Why?

Manners, Sammy. Don't interrupt. You're going to be something special – much more than that useless lump of pussy back there. She was a precog, too, but she didn't have your other talents. Your brain actually is pretty useful: you can go anywhere, see anything. Be anyone.

A chill settled in Sam's mind. Yeah, I'll bet you want that, huh?

Oh, you have no idea, Sam. I'm coming for you.

 

A stab of fear that he couldn't help, that he knew it would feel.

Aw, not such a brave boy now, are you? Where's big brother Dean? Or how about little Reese? You're kind of running low on relatives to die for you.

You – you stay away from them. If you want me, fine, but stay away from them.

Its voice turned deadly serious, all amusement dropping away. Is that a promise, Sammy? I'd keep it – I'd let them go, if you gave yourself up.

Sam flinched away, his father's heart beating in his chest. No. No. Do you think I'm that stupid?

It laughed softly, low and deadly. No, but I do think you love your brothers. I hear New Mexico is lovely this time of year, how are the trees?

Horror washed through Sam, buffeting his weak defenses aside and leaving him raw, exposed. Oh, God.

It knew where they were. Somehow, it knew.

Sam moaned helplessly, flailing for a way to free himself. He had to – Reese and Dean – God, no, he had to get away, he had to –

What? Warn them? Oh, poor little baby boy. They've had plenty of warning. They've had you. You're a regular grim reaper all by yourself, Sam. Everyone around you dies; I'm just keeping up tradition.

Pain met with rage met with panic and formed their own whirlpool. It wasn't enough to punch free but maybe –

Sam thought of Reese and Dean and suddenly the legs of his father's body jerked unsteadily. It felt like playing a video game with a broken joystick, over-estimating the steps and almost falling, weaving like an epileptic. If he could just get it to the side of the bridge, though, if he could get it over…

He had no idea what would happen to him if his father's body "died" while he was still sort of inside it. That girl Meg had bled out barely two minutes after the demon had left her, body already dead and being pushed on by demonic will.

At the moment, he didn't care.

They made it all the way to the railing before his luck ran out: his father's hands grabbed ahold of the thick metal bar. Sam fought to move the legs again, strained at those invisible strings holding this puppet aloft; but they were unmovable. His flash-fire of adrenaline burned out, leaving a sucking vacuum in its absence, and the tiny measure of control he'd managed to wrestle away slipped from his grasp.

Breath rushed in his ears, but not his own. A body that he'd known for his whole life, that went on living past all reason. Sam had a sudden, vivid image of John swinging him up by the waist through warm sunlight like the glow of summer, big grin on his bearded face, so huge in the mind of a small boy; Sam wasn't even sure if it was a real memory, or just a wish. He thinks it must be his own imagination. They were never that close, he and his father: Dean and John had always been the ones that understood one another, that belonged to this calling that they'd chosen to answer. Sam had always been the outsider, the bookworm, always trying to break free of the 'baby' role and always falling a little short, ignored, useless except for research. Pussy stuff, according to Dean.

Stop, he gasped. Stop.

Oh, Sam, and all laughter had vanished from its soundless voice. You're making me angry. You're really not going to like me when I'm angry, and neither are they.

Then Sam was reaching out to grasp yellow flowers, sprawled on his back in the field. Whiskers poked against his jaw and Sam recoiled, sending the cat shying backwards with a plaintive, worried meow.

Reese, he thought, and sunlight stabbed deep into his pupils, slashed at his tattered nerves as he struggled to stand or sit up or roll over or do something before it was too late because God, no, not again. Dean.

-o-

There were two houses, a gas station, a grocery store, and nothing else. The brown-haired girl behind the counter looked around 11, and jerked her small hand over her shoulder towards the back. "My brother Johnny is on the can," she told them officiously, a firm note of censure expressing her own disappointment in Johnny's lack of professionalism. She looked back and forth between them for support.

Reese slipped quickly away to scan the dry goods and nuts. Dean followed a few minutes later, chuckling to himself. "That one's gonna be a charmer when she hits puberty."

"Um. You realize that was the sketchiest thing you could possibly say in public?"

"Naw. If she'd been a boy, that would have been the sketchiest."

Reese felt a little bad about laughing, but right then he was too relieved to see this laid-back-joker side of Dean. He had no idea what had brought it on… something had changed back in the truck, some crucial shift; he hadn't felt it happen, but he sensed the difference now.

They found a small freezer in back with a sliding glass top; Reese spent a good ten minutes frowning through the foggy surface, occasionally sliding the little door open to poke and shift the popsicles inside. "Chrissake," Dean groaned, nudging him aside and fishing out a knockoff Klondike bar. "Just pick one."

"I'm trying to find one that isn't chocolate. I'm allergic."

"You're allergic to chocolate?" Dean stopped and stared at him.

"Yup. Hives like you wouldn't believe."

Dean recoiled in horror. "Jesus. How d'ya live with yourself?"

He'd gotten like this before with Sam: smooth quips and waggling eyebrows. Of course, right after that he'd attacked Reese on the side of the highway. Reese eyed him, but Dean only snorted and sauntered back to the counter, where the fifteen-year-old Johnny had emerged from the bathroom and was holding his sister away from him one-handed while she swung her small hard fists at him.

They went outside with their three grocery bags and popsicles to lean against the back of the truck. Around them, the dry brush and trees spoke of a long summer nearing the end of its run: those trees that hadn't already turned yellow in the heat were golden now in the face of autumn.

October, October, Reese thought again, and shivered as he swallowed a chunk of frozen strawberry fruit bar. "So, um… what do we do now?"

He cocked his head sideways in time to catch the way Dean's placid expression faltered and slid away, and almost regretted it. Instead of swerving into anger or withdrawing again, Dean sighed and re-wrapped the remains of his Klondike bar, chucked it into the empty grocery bag between them. "Figure we gotta find a way to keep Sam from gettin'… grabbed. Charm or incantation or somethin'."

"Did this happen, you know, before?" Reese gestured with his popsicle and winced when half of it fell off to bounce in the dust.

"Visions, yeah. Not freakin' possessions outta nowhere. Fuck, it's not supposed to work that way." Dean kicked at the ground, stirring eddies of dust. "It's fucked everything up. This thing of Sam's, the – whatever."

"Astral projection," Reese murmured.

"Astral – did he say that?"

"Yeah. I mean, that's what he thinks. We were trying to come up with theories, and he thinks that it's a kind of astral projection, mind leaving the body, that kind of thing." Reese didn't miss the hint of resentment that cycled back through Dean's features.

Dean held more back, but he was easier to read; Sam was open as the sky until it came to certain things, and then he had walls and doors that Dean could only dream about.

"Well, that's Sam, geek-boy extraordinaire." Dean jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Dude's a walking search engine, except with way less porn."

After a week and a half of careful study, Reese could recognize a dance move, though he still didn't know how to perform it himself or what the next step would be; if he got involved, he'd probably step on Dean's toes again. So he stayed carefully non-committal, shrugging and going back to his popsicle. The sun had moved to a lower point on the horizon and he hiked his jacket closer, turned the collar up, and waited.

Finally, Dean said, "I guess that makes sense, though. There's s'posed to be some kind of, uh, vision-place that astral projectors go to. Had a weird name."

Reese studied the end of his right sneaker, through which he could see his dirty sock. "The Akashic records."

Dean snapped his fingers. "Right. Right. Beyond time and space." He embellished the words by wiggling his fingers and dropping his voice. "Christ, sounds like something from the Twilight Zone, I knew he was a geek but I didn't know he was that bad, can't believe we're related. That'd explain all his visions, though. And what he did with us. Does it freak you out?" he added sharply, turning toward Reese.

Reese opened and closed his mouth, then shrugged carefully. Three words or less in serious situations, Sam had told him. Unless one of you is seriously hurt. Then you can go up to ten. "Yes."

Dean eyed him another moment, then grunted. "Haven't heard of somebody projecting into someone else, but Sam's like that – overachiever. Hate to be the one to tell you, kid, but Sam projecting himself into you or whatever does not rate very high on the Winchester scale of freakiness. Hey, by the way, do you still hear that Hum thing?"

It hadn't even occurred to Reese that he should check: he'd gotten used to it that fast. He lifted his head and listened for a moment. "Yeah. Not as loud, but it's still there."

"Good. The sanctuary must go a lot further than Sam thought. He can get his own damn food next time." Dean nodded to himself, pleased, then commented, "You're kinda quiet, kid."

He lies all the time, especially about anything to do with himself. So it's best if you're as honest as possible. "Sam told me to not say much whenever I talked to you about serious stuff."

Dean managed to look amused, affronted, and pissed all at the same time. Oh, yeah. He couldn't hide a thing. Finally he settled on 'irritated' and scoffed. "Whatever. C'mon, let's get back up there before he sends down a search party."

"Of who? Squirrels?"

"Don't be a smartass," Dean warned, but he was smiling. He turned around to head for the driver's side of the truck.

And stopped short.

Reese turned to follow his gaze and felt Dean's hand settle like a clamp on his shoulder, sweeping him back behind Dean's body. He had half a second of surprise and a little bit of pleasure at the protective instinct before he saw what had Dean standing rigid, tense.

Fifty feet away, their father stood in the middle of the highway staring at them.


	21. In Which There Are Ghosts, Demons, and Bones

The kid had the good sense to stay close, and started muttering Latin right away. Dean would have felt a little proud, except then their father flickered like static on a television screen and Dean's stomach felt like ice.

The stream of Latin in his ear faltered and Dean swallowed, remembering the way the kid had sat in the back seat and asked, There are ghosts?

"It's okay," he murmured aloud, and felt himself shake. "It's not – it's just him. It's just Dad." He couldn't stop his voice from breaking on the last word and Reese's grip on his jacket tightened, twisting the leather in little creaks.

'Just Dad' didn't move, and then he did. He flickered closer like a crappy videotape that skipped a few frames, eyes never leaving Dean's face as he settled again barely twenty feet away.

Dean couldn't help the involuntary step backwards. He wished that he could because God, Dad.

He looked pale, paler than the last time he'd appeared to Dean, skin pulled tight on his bones and eyes sunk in to his skull. He looked worse than dead; for the first time he looked like something Dean would see right before he leveled off a shotgun and fired.

It took an effort to keep his hands at his sides, fighting every instinct that screamed, Shoot salt burn, because God, Dad.

"Dad," he finally managed to say aloud, and the one syllable wobbled in the soft sunlit air.

John didn't react, just stared fixedly at Dean's face. Behind Dean, Reese was panting and shivering; he'd stepped up a bit and was practically plastered to Dean's back, holding on to his jacket at the waist with both hands. It'd feel like he was using Dean as a human shield, except for the way the kid's right hand was a bit lower than his left, hovering above the gun at Dean's side.

When John spoke, it was without drawing a breath; his voice came out low and harsh, the exhalation of a spirit that spoke without vocal chords, spoke straight from obsession and the drive to stay.

"Where is he?"

Dean stared, and shook too hard to trust his voice. Reese made a faint noise but did not move, did not go for Dean's gun. Would not, Dean realized suddenly, without Dean's go-ahead.

He wet his dry lips, steeled himself to speak to – Christ – his dead father's ghost. Dead. Dad is dead. Dad is dead. "Dad – what are you – ?"

"Where is he?" John flickered closer again, sunken eyes showing white around the rims and so wild, so intense that Dean took another reverse step and ran into Reese, who was squished between him and the front of the truck.

Reese scrabbled at him, grabbing his shoulders. "Dean – "

John's eyes went past Dean and Reese stilled. A frown creased the pale, dark brow. "Who are you?"

Reese didn't answer, so Dean did, slowly and carefully. "It's Reese, Dad. From the church. Don't you remember?" And for a wild, fleeting moment he wondered if Reese had invented the whole thing, if he wasn't who he said he was –

John's face broke open, suddenly so much more present and himself. "Oh my God. Reese? You're alive?" His voice sounded scraped raw, like his own.

"Yeah," Reese answered shakily. "I think."

John took a step forward, an identifiable step with movement of his feet and hips and everything. "Pastor Jim," he said hoarsely. "He found bones. He went to the church, found demons and bones."

Reese hesitated then said softly, "It wasn't me. It was – I'm okay."

"Jesus Christ," John said. "I thought. Jesus." His eyes circled back around to Dean. "You found him?"

Dean licked his lips again, and it all fell away like a heavy coat: the sick burn of anger in his belly at being kept in the dark, left behind, just flickered and died. He could forgive his father anything; he always had. "Yeah, Dad," he whispered, throat closing tight. "Yeah, we found him. Bobby told Sam you wanted us to go to the church and we did."

"Thank God," John sighed, passing a hand over his face. It didn't quite connect right, like the lines of his skin had blurred and become something indistinct, untouchable. "I'm so sorry, boys."

"Don't. Don't be sorry, Dad. It's okay. We're okay."

"No, no. You don't understand." John spoke without looking up, hand still covering his eyes. "I…"

Nothing else came. A faint breeze from the south brought in desert smells, the scent of wet dust; it was raining somewhere nearby. "Dad?" Dean asked. His father's hand shook – no, not shook, wavered, like it wasn't really there. Which it wasn't, and he felt sick all over again. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"I can't remember." His voice had returned to that low, harsh sound, unnatural and unfamiliar. "I can't… it's slipping away. I'm slippin', Dean. I've been out here a week, and every day…"

Cold steel in his spine stabbed him into straightening. "You've been out here a week?" The second it's out of his mouth, though, he knew. Of course he knows, stupid, so fucking stupid. His father was dead, a fucking ghost, and he had appeared to Dean three times, four now. Always showing up on the road, always with them. Fucking haunting them.

John laughed, low and scratchy with no air, no life behind it. "She asked me if I wanted to go. The woman who came. Said, 'Where do you think lost souls come from?'" He dropped his hand, shook his head. "I couldn't go. I can't. There's something – I can't let go, but I couldn't find you boys. Where the hell did you go?"

"God, Dad," Dean groaned, sick. "I didn't – I'm so fuckin' sorry. I didn't think – you were out here the whole time?" Wandering, lost, and apparently unable to enter the sanctuary… which blossomed into a whole separate level of fucked-up in Dean's chest, because what the fuck did that mean?

"I can't leave." John lifted his face to the sky, empty as a skeleton and just as despairing. The motion exposed his neck and Dean swallowed hard when he saw blood there, a split in the skin that ran from one side to the other and leaked red onto his shirt. Behind him, Reese choked.

"I'll fix this." Dean took a stutter-step forward, ignoring the blood and the hollowness in his father's eyes. "Dad – I swear to God, I will."

John didn't answer at first, eyes roving across the blue sky like he was reading from it.

"I need you to do something," he said, low and gravelly.

Dean was already nodding, his shoulders near his ears. "I'll find it, Dad. I'll get it out of – I'll get it. I swear. I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't think." Fuck. He was not going to fall apart here in front of his Dad, or what was left of him; but he was shaking hard enough that his molars clattered together, loud in the stillness, and Dean struggled to choke it down.

"I need you to do something," John said again, stronger. "I need you – Dean," and the echo of death bounced along the growl of his voice, a roughness made deeper with distance. It was the sound of haunting, of hunting, lost souls gripping to life with obsession, or rage, or madness. Dean knew the sound, and went cold from more than just emotion.

John fixed him with a black-eyed stare, hard and unyielding, the moment of coherence gone. "You have to kill Sam."

-o-

Staggering, stumbling, cutting his hands on the ground, Sam made it back down to the campground parking lot and not a step further. The pavement cracked against his knees as he dropped to them.

"Are you all right?" cried a high voice, and the smack of two pairs of feet hurried in his direction. Not Dean, not Reese. Sam flung one hand out both to warn and to plead. "Son? Are you all right?"

"I can't – God. I can't, I have to." Dean. Reese. They'd be at the store now, if they were still… "Please help me."

Sunlight glowed blood-red through his closed eyelids as hands pushed on his shoulders, trying to ease him down. Sam pushed back blindly, gripping. "No nonono. I need to go to the store. It's gonna, it's gonna kill them."

"Son – lie down for just a minute, you're bleeding. C'mon, it's okay…"

"No. No, it's not, it's not, please." Sam forced his eyes open, but they slammed shut again almost immediately as his engorged pupils fought to protect themselves. God, he was helpless, pinned down beneath the rush of pain. It throbbed like hard blows against his skull, a chisel that kept driving deeper, and he had a sudden, wild notion that it might go too far and cut the brain stem. Make him bleed out inside his own head.

He forced his eyes open and it was an explosion of agony; he could barely see. He'd been like this before, with the visions, but Dean had always been there before, waking him up, holding his arms, dragging him out of the street to safety.

Sam sobbed emptily, no breath behind it, before shoving it all away. "I need to get to the store. Now. It's an emergency." Every word cost him, sapped him dry and made him want to heave his guts up; but he had to get them out. DeanDeanDeanReese. "Oh, God… please, just take me down to the store. I have to find them, please, they're in trouble."

Two male voices spoke to each other above him; Sam could only catch fragments around the pulse in his head. "…no cell reception."

"…other two?"

"Left him up…"

"…a while ago…"

Sam grasped at the hand supporting him. "Please – they're in trouble. Please."

Another hand slid over his wrist, cupping it gently. "Okay, honey. Okay. We're gonna take you down the mountain and finds your brothers, then we're gonna take you to a hospital."

Sam slumped in relief and peered upward into a kind, sun-tanned face. "…you're. Um. You're not a woman."

Somewhere to his left came a snort. The unmistakably male face leaning over him rolled its eyes. "Don't push your luck, Leland. Help me with him."

Leland, who was fortunately broader and taller than his companion, circled to the other side of Sam and hooked his forearm in Sam's armpit. "Up y'come, son."

Sam almost said Hey, you're not a woman, either, but then it clicked in his head and he killed the words in the back of his throat. Between the two of them, they got him upright; Sam clung to their shoulders and hands as the movement shifted his equilibrium. He fought it, trying to focus on the world around him, but it slipped his grip.

When he woke up five minutes later, he was in the back seat of their camper truck with Leland's partner Darrell. Sunlight shone past the man's face, making it almost impossible to see his features; but the voice that spoke to Sam was gentle, all pitched at one level like he was speaking to a horse. "It's okay, hon. Just take it easy. What's your name?"

They were rocking and bouncing a little bit, and Sam wanted immediately to throw up. He'd gotten carsick a lot as a kid, throwing up into plastic bags because Dad didn't want to stop and kept insisting that Sam just needed to get used to the motion. He'd kept insisting that right up until the time that Sam walked out the door.

"Breathe in and out for me, okay?" Darrell murmured. "Can you tell me what hurts?" Sam opened his mouth to reply Every fucking thing.

He didn't know if he ever got the words out; he was suddenly too busy watching his mother die.

It was like an old reel of film, loaded backwards, moving in fits and starts; at the same moment, it was surround-sound and crystal-clear. Mom lay flat on the ceiling, limbs spread out like an insect pinned on display. Sam could see the blood, smell it, and it felt like he was only a few inches away, hovering in midair as his own infant self howled and howled below him. Something pressed in on him from all sides, crushing like the bottom of the sea.

Then the film broke and he was back on the road in the camper, propped upright, face tilted toward a different ceiling. Darrell had one hand around on the back of his head and held Sam's nostrils closed with the other; his gentle, lulling voice had gone high with strain. "No, no, fuck that, go straight to a hospital. I think he's having a stroke. I don't know, Leland. Honey – " And Sam could hear the effort Darrell made to keep his voice low, soothing. "Honey, what're your brothers' names? Are they in your mobile?"

There was blood in his mouth, pouring down over his lips and chin. Sam's whole body tingled like the edge of unconsciousness closing in and he strained against it, just trying to focus around the pain and dizziness, because something was happening here and he had to figure it out before… "My – "

Another jerk, another roll of film dropped into the gate, and he saw Jess, beautiful Jess with her leg bent behind her, hand raised and pinned next to her head like she had been reaching out when the demon had caught her. He'd always imagined that she had been trying to speak, her mouth working, but Sam saw her closer now and she was struggling to breathe. Blood poured from the deep slice in her abdomen and he reached out, trying to catch it, trying to put it back inside.

Sam Winchester's greatest hits, that hateful voice hissed in his ear and Sam lashed out.

"Leggo! Leggo of him!" A big hand beat clumsily at the back of Sam's head, but it was not the demon's. Jessica's feeble wheezing became Darrell's, and Leland dove over the front seat, putting his shoulder right into the middle of Sam's back and knocking him forward.

"What – ?" Sam gasped, and tasted blood in the back of his mouth. He had more on his shirt, on his pants, his sleeves and knuckles. Darrell had a little, too, on his hands and nose; he was choking around the grip the demon had on his throat.

With Sam's hand. The demon had Sam's hand around Darrell's throat. It was inside him, clinging to his innards as he struggled to push it back out, throwing filth at his mind in an attempt to get in further.

Leland got Sam in a headlock; Sam, gasping just as hard as Darrell, let himself be hauled backwards. As Leland pulled him out of the camper to stand on the broken pavement, though, Sam got a lightning flash of his father's body, standing over him on that other highway, beside the Impala's shattered hulk. It smiled and smiled down at him, teeth white as bones.

It had whistled along the road and made a feint at Sam before he'd managed to close the salt line around himself and Dean's prone body. He hadn't gotten them very far away, barely a dozen feet from where their dad sat, propped up in the passenger seat, head drooping to one side and a trail of blood dripping from his mouth to his shoulder.

Sam had clutched Dean to him with his one good arm, heart tripping unsteadily and his whole body curved like a comma around Dean; he hadn't checked for a pulse yet, couldn't, was more scared of that than the demonic cloud that swirled above him. It tested the salt line but could not cross.

Afterwards, Sam had looked at his own broken arm and Dean's solid 190 pounds and wondered how he'd done it; at the time, though, he had only held his brother as close as he could and watched while the demon curved away and poured itself into his father's mouth, nose, and eyes. It had taken its time getting out and coming over to them, stretching and feeling their father's body, wiping the blood from his mouth and clothes.

Then it had sauntered over to stand above Sam, Sam who was losing his own blood and consciousness and still hadn't forced himself to check Dean's pulse.

Everyone dies, it had hissed, and he hadn't understood then; but he did now. Sooner or later, you get everyone killed, Sammy.

Sam twisted away, shuddering with the effort, felt his body jerk. Like a puppet on strings, trying to break free and then breaking free and he was back on the road.

Leland lay on the ground, a deep slice through his chest that bled freely into the gravel. The same wound had drawn itself on Dean, and Sam had wondered, in his childish, angry way, what Dad must have felt when he'd broken the demon's hold on him long enough to see what his body had wrought, what pain he had inflicted. Both through the demon's will, and his own.

The power of hell, and the force of desperation. They might be the same, in the end. Sam only knew that he had let it in, for a moment, and he closed his eyes to keep from seeing if Leland's chest still moved.

After a minute, Darrell came crawling out of the back, still red in the face and wide-eyed. "Get away from him."

Sam leaned against the side of the camper and panted. Somewhere in him there was a pulling, like a fierce riptide trying to get inside but not quite able to claim him completely. In his panic to find Dean and Reese, Sam had forgotten all about the sanctuary, and the protection it afforded, right up until they must have touched some invisible line.

They hadn't quite crossed it, though, but it was close, so close, and tightening around him.

Darrell was small, delicate-boned; he'd had on a sun visor but Sam had knocked it off and left a ring of sweaty gray hair around his head. He held onto the side of the camper, shaking, and glared at Sam, standing over his fallen partner with the fierceness of love. "Get away from us."

Leland lay in a heap on the ground beside Darrell's feet. Sam couldn't bear to look and see whether the heavyset man was breathing or not. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the camper's hot metal side.

"Get away."

Sam nodded blindly, feeling his way backwards along the length of the camper. He had to get away, had to save Dean and Reese, but not from the demon. From himself.

He saw it now, what it would do: it'd use him to kill his brothers and he shuddered, eyes rolling as the riptide yanked at him.

"I need," he whispered. "I need – to take your truck. Please."

Darrell breathed out in a little sob. "Take the fucking truck."

-o-

"Dean," Reese said quietly.

The ghost's dark eyes bored into Dean, blind to anything else. "You have to. It's open now, in Sam, and you have to kill it. Kill the door, before the demon walks through."

Reese curled both of his hands tighter in the leather of Dean's jacket, gripping him in place. He kept his own eyes locked on the back of Dean's head, instead of staring at the dead man in front of them.

Between Reese and the ghost, Dean did not move. Did not speak. Only stared back at the pale, flickering thing that had been his father once.

Which flickered again and suddenly looked pained, horror-stricken. "Dean – listen to me. It's – I've known this a long time. And I'm sorry, I'm so damn sorry that I never told you, but I didn't…" He faltered, wavering like a heat wave, his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain.

Using his hold on Dean, Reese shook him once, hard. "Dean. What – tell me what to do." I don't know what to do here. The edge of panic cut into him, a dull knife that hadn't cut the surface yet but kept pressing

"You have to," and the ghost had swerved right back into its most ominous, grating tones, the sound of ancient stones grinding together. It glowered, and the icy pocket of air that had been steadily forming around them solidified and dropped another five degrees in temperature. Reese could see his breath.

Little puffs of cloudy air appeared in front of Dean's mouth, the solitary indication of his panic. Other than that, he was entirely still.

Reese kept his eyes on Dean, because he'd panic himself if he didn't; in his peripheral vision, though, the ghost seemed to grow. "It was you. You opened the door. Now the demon can get through, and you have to destroy the door." Its voice passed over them in a physical wave, ruffling Dean's hair and stinging Reese's cheeks.

It stunned words out of Dean, barely audible. "You're not my dad."

The cold snap around them broke in half, warm air rushing back in fast enough to make Reese dizzy with the change in pressure and heat. "Dean, I am – I still am," the ghost whispered, a vibration of grief in the air so potent that Reese had to close his eyes against it for a moment.

Only for a moment, because then Dean yanked one of his twin guns out and fired straight into the ghost's midsection.

The ghost sputtered like a faulty light bulb, and a wail went up into the air around them. Reese had one, two thumping heartbeats of terror before something slammed into Dean and sent them both flying.

Reese took the blow indirectly and fell back against the hood; Dean went straight across it.

The dust beneath him smelled of popsicle and hot pavement. Reese scrambled across it without thinking, always secretly startled at his ability to act, just like he had back in his house when Mom had been burning and he'd known that there was no way to save her, and he'd run. Saved himself. Or the church, when he'd seen no point in living and had still laid his trap.

One of his hands found the fallen gun, gripped it. The other kept scrambling along with his knees until he circled the wide, bug-splattered front bumper and reached Dean. His brother lay hunched over, breathing hard through his mouth and holding his side. His lips looked gray.

"Dean," Reese gasped, feeling bruises on his own ribs. "Dean, c'mon, get up, we have to get away." Dean's eyelids twitched, pained, and Reese grabbed the front of his shirt, crowding in close on instinct.

"Is he okay?"

Reese spun. A few feet away, their father's ghost knelt on the ground, head and shoulders bowed; Reese raised the gun in one arm, then thought practice standing and dropped one shoulder back, brought the other hand up to support his wrist.

Something that looked like amusement but might have been pride colored the ghost's face. "I'm not – Reese. I'm not going to…" Its gaze slid past him to the gasping Dean and widened. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore," it went on in a broken, desperate tone. "I don't – I'm slipping. Dean, Dean, I'm so fucking sorry."

Dean wheezed a sob. Reese steadied the gun and his own breath. "Get away from us."

It shook its head, a glitter like formless tears in its eyes. "I can't. Don't you understand? I can't leave. It has me, it has my bones and it's coming. It's coming here."

"The demon?" Reese croaked.

John Winchester's ghost nodded, mouth twisting in agony. "I brought it here. I'm so sorry, boys, God, I am. I couldn't help it. I couldn't leave, and now it's followed me."

The gun in Reese's hand wavered, unable to remain steady. "What," he said, and shifted back, shoulder hitting Dean's. "What do I do?"

"You have to kill Sam," the ghost repeated dully. "Before it gets him. It'll twist him up. Break him. Please – please don't let it get Sammy."

Beside Reese, Dean sucked in a shaky breath and said, "We have to go. Now."

Reese nodded and put out one arm to wrap around Dean's chest; the other kept the gun steady on the ghost.

He needn't have bothered. It flickered and disappeared.


	22. In Which There is Much Panicking and Reckless Driving

At some point in the drive back along the highway towards the dirt road that led up to the campground, Dean passed out cold. Which was not good: it spoke of a concussion, and as he (thankfully) oozed his way out of unconsciousness, Dean had a moment's brief irritation that Sam wasn't keeping him awake.

Then the truck's gears ground together, louder than the growl of hellhounds, and Dean remembered that the little brother currently hyperventilating behind the wheel was not Sam.

That jolted him back to consciousness in a hurry. "Whereweat?" he slurred all together.

Reese's pale eyes flickered over to him, then fixed back on the road. "We're almost to the turnoff. Are you okay? You passed out for a bit there."

The party in Dean's head kicked up a notch; he rubbed at his eyes, squeezing them shut. "You – fuck. Think I got a concussion. You have to keep me awake."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

"And get outta third gear, wouldya?"

"Sorry." The kid's mouth twisted.

Dean heard the strain in his voice and eyed Reese's knuckles where they stood in neat, white rows on the steering wheel. "You're not panicking. That's better'n most people. Where's the ghost?"

"He… went away. I think. That was Dad, right?"

"No." His own vehemence startled Dean and earned him another quick look from Reese. "No. It wasn't Dad, not anymore."

"How is he even here?"

"Didn't you read Dad's journal? Listen to Sam, any of that shit?" Dean closed his eyes against the pounding in his head and probed at the side of his neck. It felt like all the muscles there were starting to seize up: he'd knocked pretty hard into the truck's hood, and he had whiplash from the feel of it. "Demon's got the body, so the spirit can't rest."

"So, we have to get his body?"

"Pretty much. Not that we can." Exhaustion and dizziness pulled at the edges, and Dean slumped into the seat, his heart racing. God, Dad. Dad, I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't see it, I didn't think…

Reese's hand closed hard on his shoulder, shook him. Dean bit back a curse and shoved him away. "Don't go to sleep," the kid begged shakily. "I need you – I need you to tell me what to do here, Dean. C'mon."

"I'm not going to fucking sleep," Dean snapped, but sat up. "Just keep driving. Get us back to Sam."

Reese nodded but didn't shut the hell up. "What was Dad talking about?"

Dean's stomach turned over and his eyes closed again, involuntarily. You have to kill Sam. "That wasn't Dad. That wasn't fucking Dad, okay, so just shut the fuck up about it, that wasn't him and he wouldn't say something like that, not about Sam. Anybody else, but not Sam. That – thing, it didn't know what it was talking about – "

"I meant," Reese broke in, his shoulders around his ears and his eyes cautious, "about the demon. About how it was coming here."

Dean blinked. He'd been so lost in the horror of you have to kill Sam that he hadn't even registered the second part. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."

"Is it?" And there was a definite note of panic in the kid's voice now. "It's coming here?"

"Calm down, calm down, it can't get on the sanctuary – "

"No!" Reese cried. "No, nono, it'll get us in here and we won't be able to leave, that's what happened back at the church. I couldn't leave, even when I knew nothing was outside, I couldn't, I was too scared. We can't let it – "

Dean reached over and grabbed at the wheel; his depth perception was fucked up by the blow to the head, but he managed to keep them on the road. "Reese. Calm the fuck down. Now." When the kid's hands and breath steadied a bit more, Dean said as gently as he could manage, "We're not gonna get stuck. We're gonna grab Sam and get the fuck outta here before – "

"Sam can't leave," Reese whispered. "He can't. He told me. It'll get inside of him."

"What… a long-distance possession? Kid, that's not even possible."

"He said it was. He said – that it felt like he'd opened a door, when he jumped into you, and then me." Reese licked his lips, eyes darting from Dean to the road to the trees passing them. "Sam can't leave. We're gonna be stuck here."

Dean watched the kid, the way his mouth went grey as he struggled to contain his fear. His own brain turned the idea over, remembered the way the ghost had looked when it had said, destroy the door.

He licked his own dry lips, made an attempt to smile that felt weak even from the inside. "Hey. We'll figure it out, okay? We will. Fuck, kid this is nothing. You shoulda seen some of the shit Sam and I've gotten out of. We'll just – we'll draw a Devil's Trap in the back of the truck and then we'll – "

Reese yelped – the sound sending shockwaves of pain through Dean's skull – and stood on the brakes. The dashboard slammed into Dean's back as they squealed to a halt and he cried out in agony as ribs got re-bruised and the back of his head cracked against the windshield.

He woke up with his face smushed into the dirty floor, his cheekbone resting atop a pile of old Cheetos. The kid was definitely panicking by now, screaming his name and shaking him.

"Fuck," Dean gasped, spots dancing and Cheetos dust flying in every direction as he struggled to breathe. "Th'fuck, Reese."

"He was in the road!"

"Who – Sam? Sam was in the road?" That got Dean up in a hurry, limbs going in every direction and head swimming like crazy.

It wasn't Sam: one of their fanny-pack co-campers stood on the double yellow line with his legs braced against the pavement, looking like he couldn't decide whether to run towards or away from them.

He had blood all down his front.

Dean kicked at his door, his fingers numb and fumbling over the handle; the world around him seemed underwater, muffled and foggy. Oh, yeah, that last hit to the head had been one too many. Reese had already popped out of his door and he was talking to the blood-covered man, and where had all that red come from, anyway, was it Sam's, was it Sam's?

He must have said some of that out loud, because they both turned to him. "Where's Sam," Dean said, gripping the truck door and fighting to keep his shaky knees braced.

"He took the camper," the man said. He was sweating and pale. "He hurt Leland."

"Where is he?" Dean cried again, panic rising to block his throat.

"Over here," the fanny-packer said, "please, he's bleeding a lot, I don't know what to do – "

Not him, SAM, Dean thought; but Reese was following the blood-covered man and Dean staggered after them to the side of the road.

He heard Leland's wheezing breath before he saw the man, lying on the shoulder of the road. There was red all over the front of him, too, and Dean stopped short, swaying. The smaller fanny-pack-wearer had pulled Leland's shirt up and Dean got a good, long look at the deep cuts scoring Leland's pudgy torso. One gash cut straight above his nipples, and another ran crookedly across his abdomen; they weren't deep or bleeding too badly, but they were wide and the edges looked completely smooth, too smooth for even the sharpest knife.

Dean wasn't sure what the noise was that came out of his throat, but Reese twisted around to stare at him.

The world tilted and then Dean spun away, doubling over to empty the contents of his stomach. The Klondike bar tasted sweet and still cold as it came up, and Dean swayed, almost falling forward into his own vomit before Reese grabbed his arm to hold him upright.

His own chest burned, phantom pain tingling along the half-healed scars. Dean hugged his arms across them, shuddering.

"I don't know what he did," the man babbled, thin and desperate. "He just – he looked at Leland and…"

"Did he have black eyes?" Reese said, and Dean closed his own. No.

"No – no, they were yellow," the man replied, frightened and unknowing.

Another one of those weird noises tore its way up out of Dean, like he was being gutted.

Reese clutched him tighter; Dean felt his hands shake. "Where is he?" the kid said, and Dean grabbed back when he heard the fear and agony reflected back at him.

"I fucking told you already! He took the camper and he drove off." Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the guy gesture down the road to the south. "Now just help me, for fuck's sake, he's bleeding."

Dean didn't look at him, or at the bleeding man on the ground; he straightened from Reese's grip to stagger for the truck. Reese caught him at the door, wrapped both arms around his waist and dragged him to a halt. "Dean, what're you doing?"

Dean didn't respond, just shoved at him, his brain beating Sam Sam Sam.

"We can't just leave them! That guy – he's hurt bad."

"Don't you," the guy screamed, his voice breaking, "don't you just fucking leave us! Please!"

"Reese – get in the fucking truck." Dean misjudged the distance to the handle and fell against the truck's door, panting and trying to shove aside the physical pain. Fuck, he'd done it before a hundred times, a hundred thousand, but it felt like he had bruised half his ribs, his back and neck were rock-tight with muscle spasms, and there was a little cold spot on the back of his head that was probably blood.

Fuck. It had Sam. It had him, took him right from under Dean's nose while he'd been dicking around with popsicles, and he'd done it again.

"No," Reese said.

Dean blinked away dizziness, found himself with his cheek pressed against the window. He looked back and found the kid watching him. "What?"

"We can't leave them. He'll die."

Dean stared for a moment, lost, and then he wanted to hit the kid or something, shake him, make him understand that this was Sam for fuck's sake, Sam. Reese looked determined, though, so Dean said, "Fine," and yanked the truck door open, ready to drive off without them. Or at least try to: his whole right arm was barely working.

Then the kid stood in front of the truck, eyes wild and scared and furious.

Get out of the way, Dean screamed at him soundlessly, lips moving but no sound to back it up, partly because the kid couldn't hear him anyway, but mostly because there wasn't any sound left in him anymore. Reese had his daddy's nose and Sam's jawline, but he had his mother's bright blue eyes, and they bored into Dean, challenging, daring.

Dean fumbled at the keys with shaking fingers. Started the truck. Thought about Sam and his father and glared back.

Right around the time the kid's eyes started to change over into fear and Dean started to feel pretty scared himself, all the air inside the car went ice-cold.

"Don't you hurt my son."

The howl went straight into Dean's ear and down into every raw place inside. It hit the scars and the bruises, the dull ache around his heart that had set in the moment he'd opened his eyes in the hospital two weeks ago and had seen Sam's face, and had known that Dad was gone.

It was, impossibly, so much worse than the hand that closed around his throat a moment later, fingers digging cruelly into his flesh.

His father's dark face snarled at him from only inches away. "I'll fucking kill you, don't you hurt my son, you fuck, don't you hurt him – "

Dean swung clumsily with his left arm, but his fist passed straight through his father's shoulder and he screamed. It came out a croak, barely audible as the ghost tightened its hold on his throat, squeezing the life out of him.

It was eye-to-eye with him, dark and twisted and full of hatred. Dean thought Dad and Sam and couldn't breathe. Coldness poured into his nose, ears, pressed into the tiny spaces around his eyeballs. It filled him up and froze him, made it impossible to move as his whole body convulsed in the sudden temperature change, shuddering for warmth and air that would not come.

Distantly, a door opened. The gunshot that came a moment later was ear-splitting in the enclosed space. John Winchester's ghost split apart at the seams and dissolved, and it was like losing him all over again.

Reese stood on the other side of the truck, eyes wide and shotgun smoking in his hands.

Dean slumped down in the seat and passed out. 

-o-

Leland was a heavy man: getting him into the back of the pickup truck took Reese and Darrell a good seven minutes. Dean stayed unconscious and Reese didn't know whether to be anxious or grateful.

By the time they got Leland loaded up, Reese's arms shook, his back felt tight, and he had his own share of blood on the sleeves of his shirt. Darrell still hunched over his partner's limp body and watched Reese like he was going to whip out a butcher knife, for all that he'd done most of the heavy lifting and bandaging (as best he could – he wished to God Dean had had more time to teach him field med).

Reese couldn't really blame him.

He opened the driver's side door slowly, catching Dean's shoulder as he slumped out. Dean's eyes opened and met Reese's for a bare, frightening moment, but then they wandered shut again and Reese bit his lip, eased his brother to lie across the front seat as gently as possible.

Then he gunned the car in a squealing arc back towards town.

It was less than two miles back to the little outpost; Reese misjudged the stop a bit and slammed into the porch rail, wood cracking and splintering like a gunshot. Further down the porch, Johnny's little sister gaped at the truck, scandalized, frightened, and delighted to have some excitement. When he killed the engine she ran down and pointed a skinny finger at him as he got out. "You're drunk."

"No, I'm not," Reese told her. "Get your brother, we need help."

She saw the blood on him and her brown eyes went wide. Reese's previous impression of her proved right: like Gina, she was best in an emergency. She went barreling back into the store shouting her little lungs out, then thirty seconds later she flew back out and raced away down the road towards one of the houses, shouting back something about her daddy being a vet.

Johnny was even better. "What happened?" he asked, striding with long-limbed determination for the back of the truck.

"He got cut," Reese said quickly, before Darrell could. He prayed that Dean stayed unconscious for just a few minutes longer.

"Let's get him inside, we got a med kit in there." Johnny yanked down the tailgate and scrambled right in, boots clomping. With the extra pair of hands, the unloading went a lot faster than the loading had. Reese took Leland's right leg and arm, while Darrell handled the left and Johnny wrapped his arms right around his chest, Leland's head lolling on his shoulder.

They got him all the way inside before he woke with a grunt and started flailing. "Leland! Leland!" Darrell broke right down, obviously having reached the end of his endurance. They put the man down on the floor and Darrell leaned over him, catching his face and pulling his roving gaze around.

Johnny stepped away, probably after the med kit. Reese took a step back, and Darrell looked up, met his eyes. There was a lot in that momentary glance: gratitude, accusation, anger, fear. It was the gaze of an outsider, someone who did not understand what had happened here, and in that half-second, Reese finally and for the first time understood his brothers, and his father. How they could never let anyone from the outside in, how they'd never been able to, because who would have believed them?

How they must have lived their whole lives with nothing but each other.

Reese swallowed hard, desperation finally catching up to slam into him; he shouldn't ask, he really couldn't bear to know if… "Did – did you see a cat, up there, at the campground? A little black one, my – "

Darrell blinked, startled. "He came right out after – after your brother. Like he was following him. Leland put him in the camper. I don't know where he is now, I don't even know where the fucking camper is." Accusation and fear won over and he stared at Reese like he was the monster who had done this.

"Thanks," Reese whispered, adrenaline turning his voice hoarse. "Sorry."

He bolted for the door.

His own unconscious person had woken up too: Dean groped at the dashboard, eyes glazed and not at all present. "Sam?" he croaked when Reese climbed back inside.

"No," Reese said. He started the truck and pulled out.

-o-

The outer edge of the sanctuary rushed into Sam's chest like an ocean wave. "Pater noster," he said clearly, breathing through his nose and speaking on an exhale as he put the pedal to the floor. His mouth moved automatically, calling up every prayer and rite from the endless volumes in his brain.

Something crackled along his synapses, static electricity on the inside of his skull. He stood on the gas, watched the needle tick higher and higher, passing 60, 70, 80. He had gone north on the two-lane highway that curved down and out of the Spanish Peaks Wilderness, cutting a line between the mountains and the lakes.

In the opposite direction on the highway was the little town of Cuchara; Sam had seen it at night, when they'd first come to the sanctuary. It'd seemed like such a small community of home-schooling and children in hand-me-down boots. Sam had always loved those secret places of America where people stayed and stayed for generations; you could linger there, or leave and then return, without any noticeable difference.

He could see it still, in the part of his mind that wasn't currently being squeezed to bits. He imagined Dean there in that little town, big stupid macho leather coat like body armor for his mind; he saw Reese with his shoulders hunched in anticipation of the next blow and furtive as a stray. The two of them would walk from the truck to the grocery-cum-hardware store, their boots kicking up swirling, ash-flavored dust. It didn't surprise Sam in the least that even in his head, they were arguing about something.

He thought, I'm sorry I'm sorry I love you.

It would not use him. Not like it had used Dad, like it was using Dad, to kill the people that he loved.

His hands jerked, electricity finding ground and the edges of the tires went off the side of the road. There was nothing out there, no shoulder and barely any guard rail; beyond was a steep drop.

Sam watched, grim, unyielding, as the camper drifted closer to that sharp edge; he never stopped the litany.

A spasm ripped through his hands up his forearms, bright and painful. Then he was in control of them again and jerked the camper back toward the faded center line.

Where you goin', Sammy? The voice seemed to come from beside him, and from the corner of his eye Sam imagined that he could see his father, legs kicked wide and draped across the seat, watching him. Sam did not turn to look; he did not stop chanting. That thing was not his father, and it wasn't even in the fucking camper.

The demon laughed at him, low and condescending. You were always stubborn as a mule, y'know? Right from birth. The doctors had to break out the forceps, you just did not want to pop out. That's okay, though, kiddo, I can wait.

Sam launched into the prayer against Satan and rebellious angels. This, he knew by something deeper than heart or memory; the opening lines called on Michael to defend them against the spirits of wickedness. No mystery there, then, that he could recite it for hours and have space left over in his mind.

You want to try again? he asked the demon. It's a long way down the mountain.

It yanked at his legs, probably trying to dislodge his foot from the gas, and Sam clenched tight, spitting Latin between his teeth. For one excruciating moment, he had the sensation of a tug-of-war, with the demon on one end and himself on the other, and his own body stretched between.

The tires drifted off the side of the road again.

It released him with a snap and Sam slumped, still panting the Latin that was keeping it out of him. You're right, Sammy, it replied coolly, but there was a tense undercurrent that hadn't been there before. Can't have that. It's all right, though, I'm patient. I've waited twenty-two years, I can wait through another tank of gas.

Sam transitioned smoothly into Psalm 67. The world outside whizzed by, a blur of trees and squealing tires. Maybe you waited twenty-two years for nothing. How about if I go first, huh? He let the steering wheel twitch just a little bit, a quick swerve to punctuate his point.

It hissed and chuckled, a coiling rage that wound tighter and tighter. Familiarity supposedly bred contempt, but the more that Sam felt this thing, the more it terrified him. Old, so old, and formless, (seemingly) endless. Without mercy. Existing for one purpose, the absence of light. That didn't work too well last time, did it, though? I got your daddy at just the right moment – brain dead and still warm enough to be cozy. You wanna be like that, Sammy?

Sam swallowed down his fear and continued exorcising himself, holding it at bay. He had the wolf by ears now, and a moment's swerving would destroy him, either way. You're not here. I know you're not, you can't be. How are you doing this? Any of this? You can't – demons can't fucking teleport.

Oh, I'm not doing it. You are. You're reaching out to touch someone and I'm just touching back. It leered at him crudely with John's wide mouth. I couldn't've asked for it to work out any better. I'm your daddy and you can't help reaching out – you miss him so bad, doncha? Hurts so much, and you can't stop yourself from looking for him. You're the one pulling me in, Sammy.

Why me? Why do you want me so bad?

Because, it whispered right in his ear, I can't teleport… but you could.

Sam thought about driving off the side of the hill. A freefall into space, then splat on the ground.

Something wet and ticklish touched the back of Sam's neck and the truck swerved for an entirely different reason. Sam heaved at the wheel, panting in the force of adrenaline and losing the train of Latin; the demon, though, was too surprised to take the opportunity.

Mordac, Lord of Fury, clung to the top of the front seat with his claws, his tail spinning in midair like a helicopter rotor and his yellow eyes wide with fright.

"Holy sh – " Sam broke off when he felt the pressure building in his chest, around his eyes, and he resumed his mantra. The cat dropped inelegantly onto the seat, then the floor. It skittered under Sam's legs and he had a moment's breathless panic that it would get under the brake pedal until he remembered that he wasn't using the brake pedal.

The demon laughed without sound. Well, ain't that somethin'. You gonna go sky-divin' with the kitty, Sam? Don't kill the kitty, Sammy, don't kill the kitty! It put a mocking spin on the last words, imitating the high pitch of a pleading child.

The De Exorcismus et supplicationibus quibusdam was more complicated, more recent; it'd come out right before he'd left for school, and Sam had had to play catch-up when he came back. Recalling its lines gave him less room to think and Sam launched himself into it, shoving aside the demon, the day-dreams of Reese and Dean sitting in the truck (arguing) or shopping for groceries (arguing). They would go back up to the mountain and look for him, and Dean would panic, and hopefully Reese – please, Reese – would find a way to keep him together, give him a reason not to self-destruct.

His father's voice whispered about all the things that it would do to his brothers, once it got inside Sam. It wasn't there; he knew it wasn't. He also knew that it was not his father, for all the good that it did him.


	23. In Which Reese is His Youngest

There had been a time – felt like so long ago – when some part of Dean's body hadn't been in excruciating pain.

Yeah, those were the good old days.

It was a measure of just how shitty he felt that he wasted precious seconds, in which Sam got further away, to make the kid pull over and get the med kit out of the truck's backseat. "You sure about this?" Reese asked, a worried line drawn between his brows as he held the needle carefully in both hands.

"Just fucking do it," Dean grunted between his teeth. The needle prick felt like nothing at all, lost in the sick spinning in his head, his stomach's empty clench, and the screaming muscle pains in his side, back, neck, and right arm.

Morphine would slow him down, but he was no fucking good to anyone if he hurt too bad to even stand up. Not that I've been any good to anyone so far. Besides, the frantic pound of adrenaline inside him would do wonders to counteract the usual dopiness. "Just drive, kid," he slurred, falling back against the seat and praying to God that Sam hadn't gone far, that the demon hadn't taken him to someone that they knew and spilled too much blood for Dean to mop up.

The kid slid back behind the wheel, but glanced at Dean again as he put the truck in gear. "You're gonna stay awake, right?"

Dean coughed a laugh that he wouldn't feel for years. "Yeah. Sure."

"Good. 'Cause I really don't know what I'm doing here, and I could use some help." And there were layers to that, plenty of different layers in the kid's voice and the way he put the pedal back on the floor and kept his eyes fixed on the road.

Dean didn't have time for layers or bleeding people. Sam was out there, possessed. The damn thing had him, and they'd better goddamn find him soon. "Okay. Yeah. Just – drive South, fast as you can."

"What're we gonna do when we find him?" When Dean didn't answer immediately, the kid stumbled on. "We can exorcize it, right? Get it out of him?"

The cool blanket of morphine settled over Dean, even with the low dosage, and he was so not up for this. He grabbed at his right shoulder, pinching the rigid muscles, and cringed at the little shoot of numbed-but-still-potent pain that lanced from the base of his skull through his neck to the shoulder socket. Oh, yeah, things had been knocked out of whack pretty bad.

"Dean?"

"I don't know!" he snapped, and shivered. Fucking morphine, gave him goosebumps. "I don't – this thing doesn't exactly play by the rules. Holy water didn't work, when it was in Dad. And it jumped into Sam long-distance, apparently. So – " He chopped the air with his left hand, then blinked at the heavy bandage wrapped around his palm. "What the hell's that?"

"You cut yourself. So, we're gonna exorcize it if we can. If not, what d'we do?"

Dean eyed the neat little field bandage on his hand, alternately impressed by the kid's work and irritated that he wasted time patching Dean up when he coulda been driving. "We… get it in a Devil's Trap, somehow. Get it trapped, and then we get Bobby on the phone."

"I thought he'd gone dark?"

"You don't even know – " Dean stared at him. "Did Sam tell you about Bobby?"

Reese nodded, his eyes on the road. "And Missouri Mission. Could we call her?"

Something like a wild animal woke up in Dean's chest; it'd been there all week, occasionally snorting and growling but easily subdued by a whack to the head. The drugs had him sloppy, though, and it rose unrestrained to bare its teeth. "It's Missouri Moseley. And she ain't gonna be much help, she's just a psychic, remember?"

The kid threw him a quick, sharp look, with the same expression he'd had when Dean had ordered him to leave the sanctuary for food. "Right. Sorry. Sorry for not knowing everything automatically."

"Oh, Jesus, don't get smart with me right now, fer fuck's sake, just – "

"I'm not," the kid said quickly, and all the hostility had evaporated from his voice. "I'm sorry. I know you're worried about Sam; I am, too."

He sounded, abruptly, so young that the ugly thing in Dean's chest dropped its tail between its legs and slunk back into the shadows. Dean swallowed and muttered, "Yeah. Just – we're on our own here, okay? We're all we've got."

The kid laughed, and that was an ugly sound, full of despair and a different kind of agony. Dean stared at him.

On a good day, with Sam and Dad safe and the Impala purring over back roads onto another hunt that hopefully involved an everyday haunting (maybe in a sorority house – hey, a boy could dream), Dean could maybe – maybe – peel apart what somebody wasn't saying. If the person was Sam or Dad, and they weren't actively trying to shut him out. And he'd had his coffee.

Jesus Christ he hurt so fucking bad.

Dean took a wild stab in the dark. "I wasn't gonna run you over, back there. Not really, fer fuck's sake."

The kid barely glanced at him. "Yes, you were."

Dean closed his mouth.

A whole mile went by before he murmured, "No, I wasn't."

The kid didn't believe him; Dean could read that one loud and clear from the set of his jaw, the faint purse of his mouth. He was still way too open to hide himself, and Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed that even he could read the expression on the kid's face. It wasn't anger, or something healthy like that, just hurt masquerading as grim indifference.

"Jesus Christ, Reese," Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I wouldn't – you're my brother."

That barely earned him a second look. "Yeah, and Sam's your – whatever. What do we do if we can't exorcize him?"

That right there was a Class A evasion tactic, bald and clumsy, and the kid's lips were still drawn tight across his teeth. God, he sucked at this. Unfortunately, Dean sucked even harder at drawing difficult emotions from unwilling male relatives; he was nothing if not fair, and he'd always figured that what goes around comes around.

"We'll figure it out," he finally said, reluctant, knowing that this inch of given ground would cost him down the road and just praying that there would be a future wherein this could come back to bite him on the ass.

The kid nodded and kept driving.

-o-

Sam drove South with a mountain range on his left, a sunset on his right, his voice going hoarse, and the demon in his mind. It was getting inside of him, burrowing deeper beneath his skin like a chigger and eating him bit by bit. It whispered to him all the while.

Once the small cat calmed down a bit, Mordac crawled back up Sam's pant leg, his little claws digging pin-pricks. He balanced atop Sam's broad thigh, all his four paws braced suspiciously. Without taking his eyes off the hurtling road, Sam rubbed a reassuring thumb across his furry head; the cat's skull felt tiny under his hands, delicate, so breakable.

Don't hurt the kitty, Sammy, don't hurt the kitty.

He drove on and on, back across the border into New Mexico and down from the mountains. He didn't want to leave the higher elevations, liked at least having the option of driving off the road and ending it all in a second; but Reese and Dean would be back there, probably pursuing by now.

The demon asked him every ten seconds where he was going, where you gonna go, Sammy, no big brother and no Daddy to clean up your mess. You always wanted to stand on your own two feet, but look at you now.

That had more truth to it than lies. There wasn't anything out there, no sanctuary for him. There was the church, but that would mean turning around and heading back towards Reese and Dean, or curving around in a wide arc to avoid them; from the way his muscles twitched in a power not his own, he didn't have enough time.

So it was a question, now, of how far away he could get before the gas ran out or his voice broke completely, or the slow wind of the demon's coils around him choked off all air and thought like a python tightening on its prey. Sam switched on the headlights and kept the speedometer above ninety, high enough to do some real damage if he crashed.

That didn't work for Daddy, remember, Sam? I got him right before the end, and I was a lot further away then. Whaddya wanna bet that I can get you, too, before you go?

God, what he wouldn’t give for a gun, a gun with just one bullet for his head, no question about it. The camper's window creaked a bit as Sam rolled it down, letting the fast air pound Latin straight out of his mouth. It wasn't harder to hear the demon, though. They won't know, at first. Reese'll be skittish, but he loves you, already… kid's smart enough to figure out you're all he has. Dean won't care, he'll run right over to you straightaway. I'll take him first, of course, better shot and all that. Gut him nice and slow, intestines goin' everywhere. Reese'll probably take off running and I'll have to chase him down – you got such long legs, Sammy, it won't be too hard…

A construction pylon went by and there were bulldozers parked on the side of the road, gone dark and still in anticipation of the next work day. Sam mentally calculated the point of impact force, the mass and density ratios, and wished that he was driving a smaller vehicle.

In the gathering darkness, he almost missed it, almost overlooked the small object tucked close to the back wheel of a bulldozer.

Then he was grabbing Mordac and throwing on the emergency brake, feeling the camper spin out and almost roll. The cat yowled, scratching at him, and Sam fought the centrifugal force as the vehicle fishtailed in a stomach-dropped arc before coming to a halt in the middle of the road.

He was out and running before it had time to recover, screaming Latin and struggling to run straight after the spin. He had a writhing Mordac cradled to his chest in one hand and fuck, the camper had taken a good fifty feet to stop, he had to run all that distance with his long fucking legs.

Halfway there and the demon caught up, slammed into him, a cougar on his back and a choking filth that crowded up into his senses. Where you goin', Sammy, get the fuck back here. All of its mellifluous charm was gone, and it sounded nothing like his dad.

Sam gritted his teeth and dug deep, pushing himself forward even as he felt it tighten around his legs; it felt like wading through a swamp. He slowed from a run to a jog to a walk, and God, it was getting inside him, a burn of ice in his veins.

The bulldozer was right there, and the little paint can beside it. Right there, so close, after everything, after Mom and Jess and Dad. It occurred to him suddenly, only a few more feet to go, that it might be empty and Sam couldn't help but sob, begging with everything in him that wasn't demon anymore. Screaming Latin at the emerging stars and the empty desert and the distant mountains.

The paint can wasn't empty. Sam got a better grip on the cat and tore the lid off, bending all his fingernails back as he did so, and staggered back out into the road with the can's edge gripped in one hand.

It was bright orange, no surprise; probably used to make notations on the road. The top had a crust of dried paint around it, but the inside came out in a smooth flow, spilling onto the black pavement. Sam drew a line and it wavered, his arm jerking.

Oh, smart boy, the demon cooed, and tore at him. Sam wound up on his knees, shaking under the strain; he shuffled forward across the road, tears and breath gushing out of him in pained little sobs. He could barely see anymore, was doing this all by rote, and the demon hissed You're doing it wrong, you're gonna get a line crooked and it's all gonna be for nothing, give up right now, you fucking little shit.

Only the anger in its tone kept Sam going. He could hear the cat meowing and prayed he wasn't squishing the poor thing, prayed that he still had a hold on it, that he'd made the circle big enough and he wasn't leaving gaps. His insides felt alive, stomach lurching and heart pumping like crazy, pounding in his ears, almost drowning out the demon's voice and his own. Mingled prayers and curses, and the tangy smell of paint in his nostrils.

I'm still coming, Sam, I'm still coming to where you are, I'll find you, you little prick, don't think –

Then the rubber band snapped and Sam was on his hands and knees. Or rather, hand and knees, one whole arm preoccupied with cradling the cat like a football. It had gone still and tense against him and Sam folded himself around it, turned his face against its black fur.

Nearby, the camper creaked and whined; in that last, frantic rush, he hadn't even killed the engine. He listened to the diesel chug and remembered, suddenly, how Reese had described the Hum. Over that rumble, Sam could hear the distant yip of coyotes from the mountains at his back.

There was orange paint on his hand, squelching between his fingers, and paint all around him on the road in the shape of a Devil's Trap.

Sam hung there a moment, panting, then barely managed to twist sideways so that he didn't crush the cat when he fell flat on his face.

-o-

Reese found himself wishing like hell that he knew more about morphine. Dean kept veering between sloppy panic, yelling that Reese wasn't driving fast enough, and slurred, slightly maudlin ramblings. For all Reese knew, either one was a sign of overdose.

"I can't lose him," Dean said, his head lolling on the seat. "I can't. It's my job."

"I know, okay? We're gonna find him." What the hell they were gonna do then, Reese had no idea. Dean hadn't been a big help in that regard, either, and Jesus H. Christ, Reese had no idea what he was doing. It'd been at least three hours since Sam had taken off, and they'd spent about half that time getting Leland to help. Reese wondered briefly if the man would live, then quickly tucked it away.

That, too, must be something that his brothers did often.

"Lost 'im the first time in a grocery store," Dean said throatily, face tipped toward the ceiling. There was such strain at the corners of his eyes. "Don't tell 'im. Don't think he remembers it, an' Dad never knew. It was in… Kentucky, I think. Dad was out huntin' somethin'… didn't know much 'bout it back then, he tried t' keep things from us, at first. He'd… been gone a week." Dean scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, smacking his lips. "Y'got any water?"

"No. You already asked me."

"Crap. Got the dry mouth. Prolly won't be able to shit for a week, either."

Reese squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back for a moment, silent.

Dean saw it anyway, and chuckled. "S'true. This shit dries you out." He looked out the window and sucked in a sudden breath, so raw and destroyed that Reese looked over sharply, wondering if he had seen something on the side of the road. "I keep fucking up and losing him."

They drove in silence for a few miles. Reese thought about the Sam that he knew, separate from whatever Dean saw in his own head: tall and lanky guy with dark hair and a cautious smile, like he wanted to be friends but that impulse had caused him problems in the past. He'd tried like hell to be kind (if over-protective) to Reese right from the start: Reese could still remember sitting together in the rectory kitchen, eating Mini-Wheats and talking about the women that they'd both lost in the last year.

"I lost him in a grocery store," Dean broke in on his thoughts. He had his forehead pressed against the window's glass, and he stared out blankly, eyes so dead that Reese cringed, wondering again about the morphine. "We were outta food. Dad got laid up inna hospital in Paducah, couldn't call … he just got hurt."

It was night by now, the clear, bright, star-and-moon-lit of mountain country. Occasionally they'd turn a corner on the windy mountain road and it seemed like the whole sky would open up in front of them, starry paths and figures laid out in a dome above them. Then they'd curve back inward along the mountainside, and the dark earth would swallow them up again.

At least Reese was getting better at driving a manual transmission. It was kind of a trial by fire.

"I let go of his hand," Dean said. "In the grocery store. I let go of 'im… don't remember why. Didn't matter why, right? Turned around for two seconds and whoosh." He spread his fingers wide.

Another long beat of silence. Reese gnawed at his tongue – an old habit, he practically had calluses on his taste buds – and wondered if he should keep Dean talking. "How old were you?"

"Was like…seven."

"Your dad – Dad left you alone when you were seven?" Reese's eyes danced between Dean and the road. "Who took care of Sam?"

That brought up every hackle lightning-quick. "I fucking took care of Sam. Dad had to hunt, so I took care of him. Not Dad, not – not anybody else, me." He sounded almost petulant, but a little frantic, too.

"Okay," Reese said quickly, quietly.

"I could do it. Even back then. It was my job," Dean snapped, glaring, but then another shiver went over his face and drove the anger out. "I keep fucking up. I don't get it. I – I keep turning around, and he's…"

Dean was sheet-white. Reese gripped the wheel, his heart galloping, and asked, "How'd you find him again. Back then?"

Dean laughed shakily, his head waggling back and forth loosely. "Little fucker. I was running around all over the place, cryin', snot goin' everywhere. There was this Mormon family, y'know, fifty little kids all a year apart, like their mom was a clown car or somethin'. Sam started talkin' to them. He was always like that, made friends everywhere. So Sam got mixed up with all these blonde Mormon kids, got a popsicle and a ride home before anyone figured out that he wasn't their kid." He laughed again, and sounded congested; Reese carefully didn't look in his direction. "Stupid people. Stupid Sammy. I was freakin', man, swear to God, screamin' an' shit. When they brought 'im back, I was cryin' so hard and he took one look at me and started freakin' out, too, askin' if Dad was hurt. He was always so scared about that, always, every time Dad went out."

Listening to his voice, Reese thought, I think you both were, but didn't say it aloud. "You got him back, though. You always got him back."

"Yeah, and then I lost 'im again." Dean leaned his forehead back against the window, eyes closed. "On that hunt with the lilitu, when he went to college, those fuckin' redneck hunters in Minnesota… I don't. Fuck. I don't know why."

"So we'll find him again. Okay? Just – tell me what to do here, and I'll do it and we'll be okay."

No reply came from the morphined corner of the truck: Dean was hunched into himself, and gave no sign at all that he'd even heard Reese.

Fifteen months ago, the worst concern Reese had had was that Mr. Brokaw would fail him in Algebra III and he'd have to repeat senior year. Now he was driving a truck down the side of a mountain range after one long-lost brother (possibly possessed by a demon), and the other long-lost brother possibly OD-ing in the cab beside him.

"Reese."

…and a long-lost dead father in the back seat.

Reese stayed on the road, but just barely. "Shit, shit. Oh, shit. Uh, Dean. Dean! GHOST."

Dean eyes drifted, unfocused and never getting above half-mast. In the back seat, John's stood wide open. He stared at the back of Reese's head and Reese watched him in the rearview mirror, both of them unmoving for one long stretch of road, which was thankfully straight; Reese couldn't have turned the wheel if he'd even seen a curve coming from a mile away.

"I remember you," John said suddenly. "You're my son. My youngest."

He'd been like this earlier, vacillating between confusion and sharpness… and incoherent rage. Reese remembered his reaction to the last mood and dug his fingernails into the steering wheel's soft cover.

They had sat together once, the two of them, on the back porch of Reese's church – what he thought of as his church. John had drunk whiskey and spoke of a dead woman with an emptiness that nothing could fill. Reese's mother had tried and failed, and this was the end result: the two of them meeting again on the other side of death, when his father's eyes looked flat and empty in a way that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the absence of fucking life.

Reese's head pulsed with his pent-up breath; he released it slowly, shoulders falling. There was nothing else he could do, after all. He was out of his league, out of his depth, no game plan or foggy idea of what he should do here.

"Yeah," he murmured, and it occurred to him that he'd never actually said it before. "Yeah, I am. Hi, Dad."

John's gaze shifted, found Reese's in the mirror. He was close, sitting right in the middle of the seat behind Reese. Barely an arm's-length away, and Reese shivered from some unidentifiable fear. He didn't know what his father could or couldn't do to him. What the rules were.

"Are you okay?" John asked, his voice soft around the edges.

Reese coughed a sob out of nowhere and bit it back hard, strangling the sound in his own throat; it dropped back in his chest and burst there, awful cramp of pain. He couldn't breathe.

"Reese," John said, then again, "Reese. Stay on the road."

Reese sobbed again, in reverse this time, a quick suck of breath that sounded high and thin. "I'm on the fucking road. Stay the fuck away or I'll – " What could he do? The salt-filled shotguns were on the floor in the back, at the ghost's feet.

John didn't hear him: he had looked across the car and seen Dean where he slumped against the passenger side door. Like a camera lens focusing, all of John's lines sharpened and got crystal-clear, and he sat forward, shooting an arm across the seat. "Dean! Dean – Jesus, what happened?"

Reese lunged without thinking, batting at unsubstantial hands. "Get away from him!"

The truck swerved and John bellowed in the enclosed cab with a force larger than sound. It hurt Reese's ears and he cringed, ducking his head against the front seat. Under his hands, Dean twitched.

"Reese," John said sternly. He had stretched from the back seat to take ahold of the wheel, and was fucking driving. "Take your foot off the gas."

He was above Reese, practically standing up in the back seat to reach the wheel. Reese lay angled across the front, his fingers curling in the soft smooth leather of Dean's jacket, but his feet still on the gas and clutch. His father glowered down at him, severe and dark. "Take your goddamned foot off the gas before you get us all killed, boy."

"You're already dead," Reese said shakily, his heart pumping.

John's eyes flickered in genuine surprise, then narrowed at Reese. "What the hell are you – "

"Dad," Dean said, a breath of air against Reese's ear.

There was something Pavlovian there, some reaction that Reese could not hope to trigger: John snapped back into focus, his eyes finding Dean's face and staying there, staring, changing, understanding. He let go of the wheel and sat down heavily into the back seat. Reese scrambled up, retaking it and not a moment too soon: there was a bend in front of them and he squealed them along the edge, his breath racing fast between his teeth.

The other two men didn't speak, and Reese could only hear one of them breathing, slow and labored.

"Did I do that?" John asked at last, soft and destroyed. He was right behind Reese, directly at his back. Reese fought hard not to lean forward against the wheel.

"Yeah," Dean croaked. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," John murmured. "I didn't – God, Dean."

"It's okay," Dean repeated quickly. He was bleeding again, a slow trickle from a cut just in front of his ear. "I'm okay."

John made some kind of noise indescribable except in the way that it made Reese shiver. "Where are you going? You need – Reese. Jesus, help your brother. The sanctuary's back that way – "

"It's got," Reese started, then stopped and looked at Dean.

Dean's wet, glassy eyes were only for his father. "I'm sorry, Dad, Dad. I fucked up. I know, I promised, always take care of him, and I fucked up so bad. It got Sam."

John made that sound again, and Reese couldn’t help but inch forward, his shoulders up around his ears and his neck prickling. "The demon?"

"I don't know how." Dean swallowed, and it echoed out of his open mouth as a kind of wretched, miserable gluck noise. "He was – Dad, I'm, I don't know what to do."

The air shivered and John's voice shifted like water redirected over choppy shallows. "You know what to do."

"No." They were so in tune to one another, changing as the other changed; Dean glowered over the back seat. "I'm not – you're wrong. I won't do… that."

"You will."

Reese turned away from the road and found Dean looking at him, frantic and furious as he could be when he was practically melting into the seat. Their father was talking to Reese. "What? Oh. Oh, fuck."

John sat right at Reese's back, ice and trembling air. "You ever had a demon inside you, boy?"

Reese gripped the wheel. "No. Had a brother, once."

"Reese, don't – "

"It's like drowning, forever," John said. "Getting trapped under and having it just go on and on and on. Watchin' yourself do horrible things, to people you love."

Dean had been making inarticulate, slurred noises of protest, but he stopped then. John went on, "I've seen it. I've felt it. And Sam – he's like an open door, that can go anywhere. It could go anywhere. If – God, Dean." He reached across the seat again, then stopped midway, his hand wavering (not like he was uncertain, like his flesh wasn't solid), and then drew back. "You think I want to be sayin' this?" he said, sounding agonized. "You think I want – not Sam. Not Sammy."

Dean kept his eyes on Reese, even as they spilled over. "Don't you – don't you promise him that."

"You have to, I would if I could, God, I always thought I'd have to – "

Dean's head swiveled around, accusing glare in place. "You stayed away 'cause of that, didn't you. This whole last fuckin' g-goddamn year – Reese, don't you promise him anything!"

They were both yelling at Reese, but the fight was between them; still so in tune even in an argument, on the other sides of life and death. Reese found himself remembering his father, as he had been in those brief days when he'd come to the church bearing food. Reese had been too numb at the time to understand how badly he would miss the man when he went away, out of sheer desperate loneliness. Not out of any kindness on his father's part: he hadn't been angry or cruel, he'd just looked at Reese like a problem that needed to be solved as quickly as possible.

Dean had done the same. He'd been better at times, and worse: attacking Reese back on the road, this road, when he'd thought Reese was a threat to Sam; taking Reese out into the lake and washing him off with a brusque voice and gentle hands.

They did not welcome him. They tolerated, protected, even liked him, but they did not welcome him into this strange, fucked-up family, and at the moment Reese kind of felt glad about that.

Sam had welcomed him. Like a boy making instant friends with a herd of Mormons.

"I'm not doing it," he spat, as sudden as a sob.

They stopped and stared at him, then began yelling at the same time again; John was more impressive, and now Reese did plaster himself against the wheel, ducking his head against the force of cold air against his shoulders.

He put the pedal to the floor, truck shuddering, and screamed back over the ghost's howl and Dean's weaker bellow, "Fuck you both. I'm not promising to kill anybody and I'm not promising not to kill anybody, I'm not promising anything to anybody. You're both fucking crazy."

The window beside his head cracked under the force of his father's anger. Reese lunged away from it, braced one hand against the dashboard, one foot on the floor, and slammed on the brakes.

Belatedly, he wished to hell he'd checked the road before pulling this move: he had no idea what was ahead of them, if they were about to spin out over a ledge and plunge to their highly-ironic deaths (and one afterlife). It was too late by then, of course, and he could only shove his other hand under the seat and pray.

The double-barrel sawed-off Winchester Model 23 – two rounds, only for quick hits and no returns – skittered across the truck's floor, thrown forward by their sudden shift in inertia. It got all the way under the seat to the front, and then wedged there, stuck between the floor and the seat carriage.

Above Reese, John roared.

He got a hand on the stock and wrenched, scrabbling, yanking the barrel out and smacking himself in the face with it. He didn't even pause to wince, just rolled over, and tried to aim above him. The angle was all wrong, though, twisted up on the floor with one hand on the dancing wheel. Dean had one hand on Reese's shoulder, pulling at him, and Reese used it. He levered himself upright in the seat, swung the shotgun over one shoulder, and fired it, upside-down, behind him.

He didn't expect to hit anything, didn't hope or think beyond blind panic.

John cut off all at once. The truck fish-tailed to a halt; he and Dean rolled forward, then flopped back as it came to a full stop.

Dean blinked at Reese, eyes swimming and not at all clear on what had just happened; he kept glancing into the back seat. Reese wasn't a whole lot better: between the shotgun blast right beside his own head – and hello, deafness, that was quite a ringing in his ears – and the weird angle and the blind shooting, he kind of didn't want to know how well that had worked.

Most of the salt round had hit the back seat and cracked the rear window of the cab; but a good portion of salt particles had found their target, too. John Winchester's ghost sat hunched over his half-blown-away body.

He raised his head, brown eyes wild, and glowered at Reese.

Dean shoved at Reese's shoulders, cranking him in the opposite direction. Reese got the intent and whipped around, swinging the shotgun butt into the crook of his shoulder.

The second round went straight into John's face, and he dissolved instantly.

In a second aftermath, Dean sobbed once and then held it in. Reese slowly turned around, scooting his way back across the seat, away from Dean and toward the wheel. He'd never lost his foot's hold on the brake pedal.

After a moment of listening to the truck creak around them, Dean said unsteadily, "Guess you're a natural after all." He sagged against the seat again.

Reese shivered and put the empty rifle down on the seat between them. Got both hands back on the wheel, and sent them hurtling forward into the night.


	24. In Which There is an End

Dean must have fallen asleep – or lost consciousness – for a little while, because when he woke up with his heart pounding a sudden drumline in his chest, the morphine droop had pulled up a little. That also meant his shoulder and neck and side and head hurt twice as bad, but he had just enough dope left in his system to power through.

He didn't turn around to look at where the back seat was torn to hell.

"Where?" he said to Reese, then swallowed and cleared his throat a few times, startled at the rasp. Fuck, he was fucked up. The morphine had sucked him dry, all right.

"I don't know," the kid answered, low and scared. "I've just been driving."

So the kid hadn't been the thing that woke him up. It scared Dean just a little more, because now he had all this wild adrenaline bursting through him like miniature sun flares along his skin and no idea what to do with it or why it was there.

He rubbed his crusty eyes. "Why the fuck'd you let me go to sleep?"

Reese glanced over, his face white. "I couldn't wake you up."

Well, shit. Dean blinked, then brought a hand up in front of his face. There wasn't much point to it, he didn't have enough light inside the cab to tell him whether or not his fucking eyes were focusing or not. He'd guess not.

He was awake now, though. Something had cut through drugs and concussion to wake him up.

Dean dropped his hand and stared out the windshield, watching the edge of the headlights trace along the low brush on the side of the road. The white line was barely there, just a suggestion in the dark. "Has Dad…"

"No." A pause, and then, "What do we do if we can't find him?"

From the tone of his voice, he expected Dean to flip out, scream, or escape behind his defenses and throw grenades. Right now, though, there was nothing but a low, dull throb inside Dean's head. No barricades, no plans. So fucking screwed. Even if they found Sam, the demon was in him now.

The last time Dean had gone up against that fucking thing, he'd lost a family member. Lost lost, as in no-coming-back, except as a half-crazy ghost that tore into him every time it came around. He couldn't even exorcise the damn thing, not with half their gear mislaid somewhere between the hospital he'd woken in two weeks ago, and here. Especially not without Sam by his side, with the photographic memory for every Latin text and the elocution to back it up.

Dean thought about it, going into trench warfare and the long haul. Hunting Sam, long-term, tracking him through states and body counts. It made Dean sick in ways that even a concussion and a blow to the sternum can't.

"We'll think of something," he said. "Just… keep driving."

It looked like they were almost out of the mountains, now, going steadily downhill: Dean found himself slipping further and further on the seat, until he gave up and groped behind him for the seatbelt. Getting the little metal tap in the little plastic holder proved difficult; it was stone-black outside and he really couldn't get his eyes to focus at all. He tried a few times and kept missing before the kid reached over and held it for him, like some kind of invalid. Dean wanted to bitch about that, but couldn't summon the energy; he let Reese catch his fumbling attempts and then sat back, head swimming.

Spots moved in his vision, little pulsing stars that changed color and obscured his sight. Dean watched them and said blurrily, "Gonna need a hospital before long. Whichever way it goes." He felt shitty for having to ask, but if this went long-term, then he needed to get patched up. Needed to get back out there on the road, finding Sam before it was too late, finding Sam…

The kid's rough hand shook him back awake. "Dean, Dean, please wake up." He sounded like he'd been going on for a bit.

"Awake," Dean grunted. "Gotta find Sam."

"I'm trying." Reese sounded so ragged, young.

"I wasn't gonna run you over." Dean swiped a hand over his face, expecting blood to be pouring out of somewhere, his eyes or his nose. His head felt fuzzy, pressure like a bitch in his sinuses. "I woulda… got out and punched you, dragged you over to the side a' the road. Wouldn't a' run y'over, though."

The kid laughed with an edge of hysteria. "Okay. Thanks."

"No prob." Dean twisted around in the seat, heart pumping. "You wouldn't shoot Sam, right? You'd save him?"

In the dim light, Reese's face looked almost ghostly, too, all pale and drawn. "I'd try."

It was about all that Dean could ask for; after everything else, it was about all that he deserved. "Okay. Okay." He squinted past the blinking dots in his vision, then pointed straight ahead. "He's that way. Not far, we'll catch up to him in about five minutes."

The kid lurched in his seat, hands grabbing at the wheel anxiously. "How do you know that?"

"No fucking clue." Dean's chin met his chest, but he could still feel the race of his heart, adrenaline going up and telling him now, now, now. It didn't even occur to him that he might be wrong; he knew he wasn't, though he didn't consciously know how he knew. It was just there, sliding between consciousness and blackout, like a piece of paper slipped under a door. Be advised: Sam is seven miles ahead of you.

He had no idea where he'd pulled 'seven miles' from. It felt right, though, felt obvious and clear in his head when everything else was foggy.

It also felt inexplicably familiar.

The kid's frantic voice brought him back around. "Stay with me, Dean, okay? Stay with me."

"Workin' on it, kiddo. Workin' on it…"

-o-

Sam must have fallen asleep – or lost consciousness – for a little while, because when he woke up most of the bleeding had stopped. The cat hadn't ceased its loud complaints, though, loud meows straining on its vocal chords and only half-muffled by Sam's chest. Mordac was tired and scared and had torn the hell out of Sam's chest and hands. Sam kept him gripped close; he shifted until he could curl – not a lot of room to maneuver, the Devil's Trap wasn't very big – on one shoulder and hip, and ducked his chin to look down at the kitten.

In the bright moonlight and the faint glow of the camper's headlights (the engine chugged on fitfully), it looked like a small black hole trapped between his hands, inky fur making it hard to see. Half-dried blood covered his hands; Sam could feel the stickiness, though the pain had yet to penetrate the numb haze of adrenaline. It'd hurt in the morning, if he lived, and the cat's fur stuck to him.

Mordac meowed again, tensing. Sam did likewise, wincing as he felt the give of that tiny ribcage beneath his hands. There were coyotes out there, and God only knew what else, that would love to snack on a teensy little housecat. Forget the demon, Reese would probably lay waste to the whole Earth if that happened.

Another little burst of adrenaline punched into Sam's veins. Maybe – Dean and Reese might be coming after him right now. Sam squirmed around, feeling his pockets, then groaned when he realized that he'd lost his cell phone somewhere along the way. Fuck. He thought wildly of the roads in and out of the sanctuary, all those dirt or half-dirt lanes that branched through the trees. Dean and Reese might take any one of them, guessing at his direction – it could take hours, all night, maybe. In the morning, the construction workers would be back to kickstart their bulldozers and finish whatever they'd started on this bleak stretch of highway; he could probably stall them for a while, but eventually they or someone else would drag him out of his makeshift shelter. 

"Shhhh," he murmured to Mordac, moving his stiff, sticky hands through the cat's fur. The cat meowed plaintively at him, shaking and staring up with wide eyes.

It took more effort and concentration than Sam had thought he'd had left, but he managed to roll over and get himself upright without any of his long limbs going outside the trap. He eased the cat down into his lap and drew his knees up to create a small nest; Mordac responded cautiously to the gesture, making weak little half-meows and ducking his head under Sam's fingers. He was every bit as exhausted as Sam, most likely, and scared. A very small cat in a very big, scary world.

"Shhhh." Sam rubbed a thumb over the cat's head, followed the line of its ears to the twitching tips. "It's okay, baby. It's okay. Dean and your – Reese, they'll be here soon. They'll…"

His eyes got drawn upward, out across the moon-dark landscape. There weren't even any lights out here, just the black mounds of earth and stone that rose to the north, and the empty desert to the south. Santa Fe was down there someplace, but far beyond his sight. It was truly dark now, and Sam frowned as he tried to figure out how long he'd been out. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes: the cuts on his hands hadn't coagulated fully, and when he reached a fingertip to the innermost line of the Devil's Trap, the paint was still wet.

His body woke up bit by bit, still numb and shaky from the demon's assault. He felt the cold bite of desert air on his skin, grit on the side of his face where he'd pressed it, unconscious, into the road. Wind blew across the back of his neck and Sam shivered, wondering momentarily what might be out here, if any wild animals or something worse would be interested in this floppy, wounded human. He knew all sorts of horrible things that lurked in darkness, looking for an easy snack.

There were stars above him. Sam focused on those and stroked Mordac's soft fur. Everything else was out of his power, now: he'd gotten this far and found his own sanctuary, tiny as it was.

With his eyes lifted to the sky, it took Sam a few moments to realize that the light around him was growing, that the car engine thrum wasn't all from the camper. There was something coming from that direction, a pair of headlights that rose up along the road, lighting the camper in a silhouette.

Sam's heart jack-rabbited into motion and he rocked up onto his knees, too shaky to go further. It couldn't be his brothers – unless they'd gone in one hell of a big loop around him. More likely it was some camper heading for the mountains, or a traveler pulling through the long stretch between Santa Fe and Denver. Sam mentally rattled off the list as he tried to distract himself from the fact that he was kneeling square in the center of the road.

The car drew near the camper and slowed. Didn't honk its horn, just began edging around the camper's front. It – it sounded like –

It came around the front and breath left Sam's body in a rush, drove him down to huddle on the ground.

"God," he whispered, "God, no."

It was the Impala.

Or what was left of the Impala. Bent in like a comma around the point of impact, pieces of her pulled away from the tires into jagged sneers of metal. Doors ajar and welded into place, twisted, windshield shattered and drooping. Hood half-crumpled and cruelly beaten back into place. Some part of her undercarriage dragged on the pavement, the sound like chains. Her purr had become a diseased cough, breaking occasionally over the broken pieces stuffed inside her engine and forced to work.

Her one headlight swung across the road and fixed on him. Sam flinched, half expecting to be run over right then and there; but then gears ground together, dropping into a low idle, and a door opened.

Dean, Sam thought, hopelessly, Reese. Please don't find me. Sam let Mordac go and he darted out into the brush along the side of the road to take his chances with the coyotes.

Coyotes were far preferable to the predator currently stalking out to stand with its back to the headlights.

"Well, Sammy. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Goosebumps erupted all over Sam's body and he couldn't suppress the shudder. It saw and laughed at him, circling. Sam shuffled on his knees – wanted to stand, don't kneel before this fucker, but couldn't find the strength – to keep it from getting behind him, animal instinct to protect his back.

When he could see it clearly, it was no worse than the Impala. Just his father's face, taken and twisted into something awful. It was different from the dreams, though, better and worse. It wasn't near him, took mind of the Devil's Trap, but it was… he could see his father there. If he ignored the eyes and the awful smile, he saw only his father's hands shoved in his pockets, John's wide ground-eating gait, his square shoulders. Sam could almost pretend.

He'd been pretending all along, and the irony backhanded him. He had been the one to see his father die; and he was the one holding on the strongest, reaching out. Hoping to see his father's eyes again.

"All feels familiar, don’t it?" The Impala's headlight caught its eyes, made them flare a little in the dark. "Sitting on the side of the road, you inside your little circle, me in your daddy… all that's missing is a half-dead brother." A sly smile, knowing. "They comin' soon, Sammy? It'd be nice to get the whole family back together again."

"Fuck you. You want me, here I am."

It chuckled and indicated the Devil's Trap. "Step out here and say that, kiddo."

Sam swallowed, his dry throat clicking. He watched as it bent to scoop up a small rock from the road, tossing it one-handed and catching it again as it strolled around him. "I gotta say, Sammy, I'm impressed. I'd a thought it'd take you another couple of years to get where I needed ya to be. But then again, you were always the smart one. Figuring things out before your time. You got right in your brother's head, didn't need my help at all."

A bit of wild laughter bubbled up out of Sam. "That was your plan? That was your big, evil plan? To wait around like a chump until I – "

It wound up like a snake striking and hurled the rock at him. Sam barely managed to fling his arm up in time, and bit back a cry as it stung the skin of his forearm.

The demon went on as if nothing had happened. "Human nature, Sammy. It's like a soufflé. You can't take it out of the oven too soon. I've been around since before the Earth," it added, bending to scoop up another, larger rock. "I can be patient. Besides, this has been fun. Lotsa collateral damage."

"Yeah, like your own fucking children," Sam spat back, though he knew it was futile. He had no illusions, now. If he'd had a knife, he would have cut his own throat; but he had nothing except his words, and he flung them out with despairing fury. Winchesters go down swinging. "Some father. I'll bet the others will think twice about following – "

He twisted sideways, but still caught the rock in his shoulder. It hurt like a motherfucker, but was worth it when he saw the flash of anger on its (his father's) face before it tucked the emotion away again. Sam had always been good at that, words as weapons more lethal and damaging than any shotgun; but then it smiled and said, "I won't need any other, Sammy, not after I get into you. Then I'll be everywhere at once. Anywhere I want."

Please let them have gone north. Please. He had nothing else. "So what're you waiting for?" he asked, ashamed to hear his voice breaking into pieces.

Another rock, another stinging pain, in his side this time. His father's face split in a wolfish grin. "I'm patient, Sammy. I know when to take my time and smell the roses. I've waited too long for this to let it go without havin' a little fun. Besides – " It pointed again to the Devil's Trap. "That won't hold for long. Rain'll do it. Car'll do it faster, maybe another nice big semi. Or maybe…"

It paused, and in the absence of its voice Sam heard another motor. From his back, this time. Coming down from the mountains.

God, no. Please. Please, you fucking – please.

"Or maybe Daddy did his job and led them down here, like I knew he would," it went on, sing-song and taunting. "Maybe Dean'll do it for us, or maybe you'll stay inside your little circle and watch me kill them both. You always knew how to look after yourself best…"

Sam was barely listening anymore, had disregarded all instincts and twisted away from it to stare towards the north, where he could see the truck. Coming down from the mountains, driving fast. For a delirious moment he hoped that it wouldn't stop, that it would plow straight into the demon; but then it stepped right behind Sam and he knew, he knew.

The truck hit the brakes, skidding and swerving.

It all almost ended there, beside some deserted road on the Colorado-New Mexico border. It could have killed Dean when he popped out of the cab and started running; he already looked like a stiff breeze would knock him down, wild-eyed and bleeding, teeth pulled back in a snarl, no fucking weapons, even. It could have killed Reese when he followed a half-second behind, his hands on a shotgun, terrified but determined, following his older brother to the bitter end.

Except it got greedy. The demon was patient; it had waited so long. It wanted the full course, the five-entrée meal with all the trimmings. It wanted to kill Dean and Reese with Sam's hands, with his body and his powers. Which wasn't entirely a foolhardy notion: Sam might have held on, might have struggled against the possession for years and years, fighting to resurface long enough for someone to either exorcize him or kill him. Killing Dean and Reese, though… that would have broken him, and the demon knew it.

It jumped right at him. He didn't see it coming, but he felt it like a shove at his back, a hammer on his senses. It crossed the Devil's Trap, taking a chance and ensnaring itself momentarily.

It wasn't wrong in its gamble: Dean was bearing down, brakes off, bellowing. He'd cross the Devil's Trap without a blink and then it would just be Reese, little Reese who trailed behind, scared 19-year-old kid with a shotgun. He'd run and be pursued; the Trap wouldn't hold for long.

There wasn't a choice. For once, Sam didn't think before he acted: when the demon shoved into him from one side, Sam quickly slipped out the other.

The sensation of leaving his own body, fully and wholly, was terrifying. A sickening lurch like the drop of a broken elevator, like freefall over uncertain ground. One moment he had arms and legs and pavement beneath his knees, and the next he was in midair, clawing at nothing and trying to find some way to ground himself before he drifted off into the ether or something. A strong current pulled him back, and Sam fought against it, reaching out for anything that could hold him.

He found it. Fierce, wild, endless. Love like a battering ram, leveling everything else in front of it; but too close, too scattered and panicked. Too inverted, closed off. The beginning and end of Dean, held between Sam's hands for the barest moment, and remembered forever.

Then he looked past Dean, and it felt like a pair of invisible hands grabbed his forearms and yanked.

Dean was suddenly in front of him again, only a few paces away. Sam reached forward and caught the back of his shirt, hauled him to a stop. Dean gagged as his own neckline choked him and then Sam had him around the waist.

He said in Dean's ear, "I'm right here. It's Sam. I'm in here."

"Holy shit," Reese panted in a voice that was the same, and different. Sam couldn't tell if he was hearing it aloud, or just inside the mind that was not his own. Holy shit.

Are you okay?

No, I'm not fucking okay. I'm really not fucking okay. Reese dug in when Sam tried to pull away. Don't you go anywhere. Sam. You're all I have.

"What the fuck?" Dean twisted around, bringing an elbow up to knock away Reese's hands, head swinging away to look at Sam's body, which had dropped down to lie on the pavement, and at his father's body slumped emptily beyond. The noise he made shivered in the air, awful and painful to even listen to.

Sam shook Dean once, hard. "When you were fifteen, Dumbo made you cry. I was watching it and you were sitting there doing algebra when it got to the part where they took the mom away and Dumbo went to see her. When she stuck her trunk out the window, you started bawling out of nowhere. So I did, too, and we both sat there crying all night."

Dean stared, wide-eyed and pale, wavering on his feet. "Sam?" he asked softly, terrified.

"Yeah." Sam reached for his brother's shoulder and had to grope to find it a bit. He'd lost about half an inch off his reach; Reese was between them in height. "It's okay, Dean. It's okay."

Past Dean's ashen face, Sam could see himself – or his body anyway – standing up inside the Devil's Trap, illuminated by the beam of the Impala's headlight. It moved jerkily, head drooping.

It raised its eyes and Sam steeled himself, then found he didn't have to: when yellowed pupils found his, a switch flipped and he was calm. Collected. Still afraid, yes. Terrified. But this felt familiar.

The demon smiled to hide its snarl. "Not bad, Sammy. Still got your body."

"More like we do." Sam jerked his chin – less hair falling in his eyes, that was weird – at the design of yellow paint.

It tipped into a snarl. "Won't hold forever, Sammy. What're you gonna do, keep repainting it? You're a big boy, and big boys need their daily meals. Ask that one," – it pointed right at Sam, but did not mean him – "what it's like."

A quick flash of alien memory made Sam shiver: months and months in that church, with the stench of rotting bodies and the hollowed faces of human victims beyond saving. Something recoiled hard inside of him that was not him, and he didn't need to ask. "Dean," he said instead. "Can you – " One of them needed to stay, to watch the thing inside his own goddamned body. He would get angry about the violation later, would get furious and sickened and possibly scream at the sky a little, but right now he needed one of them to go find a way to get this thing out of his body.

Dean was still sheet-white. Shivering, and when Sam reached out to touch his skin – shorter fingers, wider palms, Reese had Dad's hands, too – it was cold and clammy to the touch.

He's fucked up. On morphine. Your dad – Dad, he threw him over the truck, I think he hit his head.

What – Dad? Dad threw him?

Long story.

So what the fuck were they going to do?

It saw Sam's hesitation, and Dean's agony. "Ain't gonna make it, are you, Deano? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he dropped dead right here, brain's probably leaking out all over the place. Did your daddy do that, Dean?" It dropped Sam's voice into that warm, gentle place that it went when he addressed traumatized witnesses and librarians, but laced through with poison. "Does he hit you, Dean? I'll bet he did, huh, when you were little and stupid and didn't follow ord – "

"Shut the fuck up," Dean screamed, no restraint on his voice. It tore across his vocal chords; for all the force in it, though, he was wavering, couldn't stand up much longer, and Sam's heart hammered along in Reese's chest.

"It's no use to you now, is it?" Sam asked, as much to keep Dean's attention as needing confirmation. "You've got my body, but I'm over here. It's no use to you." He watched the way its (his) eyes narrowed, read all his own tells.

Its lips curled, a damn ugly look for his own face. "What're you going to do, Sammy? Stay inside your own borrowed body forever?" The light glinted on its wide, wolfish smile. "Oh, now this could get interesting. You going to live inside your little brother? Possess him? What does that make you, Sam?"

It was Sam's turn to recoil from his own memory. He'd thought that a hundred times since putting his hand on Dean's chest and his mind inside Dean's body. Then again later, with Reese, who had shared the thought in ways that Dean would not, at least not aloud; he'd been terrified, and was again now. Sam imagined it, living off Reese like a parasite.

Before he could reply, or jump off the ledge into space, Reese laughed shakily. That was definitely done aloud, because both Dean and the demon reacted to it with varying levels of surprise and suspicion.

Reese?

Sam, just – listen to me, okay? Trust me.

He stalked around Dean's grasping, frightened hands and spread his arms wide, the sawed-off shotgun still held in his right hand. "You really want to do this?" Reese asked, his voice a shock of fire in the air around them. "Really? I lived for two months with a couple of your brats, asshole. D'you really think you've got anything that I haven't already heard?"

His anger built a space inside, and Sam sucked in a grateful breath. He'd been too preoccupied with Dean and the demon to realize how tightly he and Reese were wound, two people packed into one body like an overstuffed pillowcase whose seams threatened to burst. He felt it now, with a tiny lessening of pressure that was nowhere near enough. Before, Dean and Reese had both been too startled to challenge Sam for control – no, challenge was the wrong term. It was a tug-of-war, yes, but one that held them both up instead of knocking one down.

It wouldn't, couldn't last. Whatever else happened, they couldn’t stay like this for long; one of them would tear open and spill out all over the place.

Just trust me.

He did. Little Reese, with the mountain of fear and the grim determination to overcome it. Sam wouldn't have lasted alone, and he saw that too, in a flash. All that time, with nothing but the cats to save him, and two demons howling curses and hatred while Reese ate his breakfast.

It couldn't come at him that way, Sam realized. Maybe because of all that time with its children, maybe because it knew him less than Dean and Sam, or maybe because of something intrinsic to Reese.

"Brave little boy," it hissed, and Sam had never known he could look that terrifying, all dark eyes and viciousness. "Amateur hour's over, kiddo. You're gonna get torn inside – "

"Oh, shut up," Reese said. "I killed two of your kids. Dean killed two. Sam got one. You've taken out two mothers, a dad, and a girlfriend. We're one ahead in the points, asshole."

That made Sam go colder than anything the demon had ever said. His concept of Reese as an innocent died then and there in the glow of distant headlights.

The demon seemed a bit taken aback, too, and cocked its head, eyes narrowed again. "Watch your mouth, kiddo. Or I'll tear it out."

"Not tonight you won't." Reese bent and laid the shotgun down on the ground; his legs were shaking, knees locking to hold himself up. "'Fact, you're having a rough time with us, aren'tcha? You'd think, big bad demon, you coulda killed us all years ago. But here we are."

He circled around to the side until it had to turn to face him; the almost-involuntary motion sent a sharp twist of vengeful satisfaction through Sam.

He raised one fist and tapped it, sharply, against Reese's thigh. It could have been an accident of motion. Anyone else would have overlooked it.

"Needed Sam alive," the demon purred, pissed off and trying to stay in control. "He's my little window to the world, ain't that right, Sammy? He's sure got a window on you, doesn't he, Reese? You gonna let him stay in there forever?"

That was about as far as Reese could go, the absolute end of his courage. Sam felt him start to give, and their tug-of-war went lopsided.

You sure?

No. Another shaky laugh, and only Sam heard this one. Please don't let me die, Sam.

Won't. Promise.

He said in Reese's voice, "Let's find out."

And stepped inside the Devil's Trap.

It was on them instantly and Sam would forever remember the sight of black smoke pouring out of his own eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. Head cranked back, neck arching under the force of it as the cloud formed above his body.

He brought Reese's hand down on his thigh again, a hard, loud slap against denim. The demon would not know what it meant; even their father hadn't. It was the language of two, a signal that they'd developed in the last year.

Then the demon was rushing across the bare foot of space between them, and he and Reese were screaming Latin into the cloud together, keeping it at bay, forcing it out. It wasn't enough, though, this wasn't a long-distance possession, this was it, up close and personal, hissing its way under Reese's skin to join them…

For one, brief moment, it was stretched out in the air between Sam and Reese's bodies.

-o-

The shotgun's discharge echoed against the mountains, a bright flash in the dark night. Through the black cloud from hell, Reese could see Sam's body recoil, flying sideways from the impact.

Then he could breathe again, alone in his head for half a second before the demon slammed into him, taking over. He was alone with it, inside the Devil's Trap, and the Latin was fading from his mind, his legs locking up and keeping him from running, from diving and getting free.

The second salt-filled round cut straight through the demon's cloud, splintering it in midair. It caught Reese in his shoulder and side, identical to the point of impact the first round had made on Sam. It knocked him sideways, too, and the demon screamed, shrill and disembodied, as Reese tumbled out of the Devil's Trap to land, panting, beside Sam.

Even drugged up on morphine, with a concussion and several bruised ribs, Dean was one helluva good shot.


	25. In Which There is a Beginning

Reese had already known that getting shot in the shoulder hurt pretty bad. Fortunately, it was the left one this time: his right hadn't completely healed yet and he’d sure done it no favors when he'd landed on it just now. Getting shot with a bullet had been a white hot shock, like a miniature sun had collided with his muscles and skin. Salt rounds, though, they stung; his whole left shoulder felt like it had been scoured raw by a Brillo pad. He rolled onto his back, both arms clenched across his chest and his breath panting between his teeth. "Jesus," he gasped to the star-filled sky. "Jesus Christ." 

Boots scuffed against the ground nearby, a stumbling gait. “Sam?” Dean said, voice low and rough. 

“Yeah,” Sam said on Reese’s other side. Reese closed his eyes, felt the spike of tears. 

“Reese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck.” Dean dropped the shotgun with a clatter then fell after it to land on his hands and knees. 

Reese listened to his gulping breath for a few moments, then raised his head with a wince. The demon circled inside its cage; it didn’t make a sound, but he watched the way it moved, the pent-up fury. If it could, it would tear them all to pieces where they lay and be damned to any plans it had laid. 

Reese’s feet lay a few inches from the outermost point of the Devil’s Trap; he pulled his knees up, propped them together, and dropped his head back to the pavement. 

-o- 

Sam moved first, probably in better shape than anyone else at the moment. Considering that he had a throbbing migraine and could barely use his salt-tenderized right arm, that said a lot about how his brothers were doing. Dean looked like he needed an emergency room, pronto: a small mat of blood and tangled hair lay at the base of his skull, his breathing sounded labored with more than just emotion, and one of his hands was bleeding merrily, probably torn open by his last, limp drop to the ground. Reese looked better, unhurt except for a few bruises and his torn-up left arm; his face, though, was tight and pale. Tears escaped from under closed eyes to leak across his temples, and he was shivering. 

There wasn’t much that Sam could do for Reese at the moment, except peel off his jacket with a wince and lay it carefully across his little brother’s chest. At least his core would stay warm. Reese’s eyes opened momentarily, blue and glassy; he didn’t do much more than acknowledge Sam’s presence. Anything else was beyond him at the moment. 

Dean was a bigger worry. He, too, seemed pretty unresponsive, still reeling under the force of panic in addition to his injuries. When Sam bent down beside him, though, Dean’s left hand slowly fisted into the front of Sam's T-shirt, right above his heart. 

Sam eased an arm across Dean’s back, mindful of his ribs. “Get to the truck?” It was as much asking for permission as for information. After Dean nodded jerkily, Sam gently pried his brother’s left hand from the front of his shirt then used that whole arm to support Dean as they staggered upright. 

He angled his body so that Dean would not see the Impala. If Dean was still responsive, then he hadn’t broken yet; Sam wasn’t taking any chances. 

It wasn’t as bad as it looked, fortunately. Dean’s chest, when Sam sat him down in the front seat and put his ear to it, didn’t crackle the way he feared it would; he peeled Dean’s jacket off and fashioned a sling for him, binding both of his arms across his chest like a mummy. The head trauma was more worrisome. 

Dean watched him out of half-closed eyes, breath still uneven. “Fucking stupid, Sammy.” 

Sam smiled, brief and grim. “Probably.” He wasn’t apologizing any more than that. 

“Reese okay?” 

That was better. “Yeah, think so. Lemme make sure you’re not gonna die of a stroke or something, then I’ll go get him.” 

Dean nodded and let Sam get a flashlight from the glove compartment, shine it in his eyes. “He did pretty good.” 

Sam paused and looked at him, saw the little tic to his mouth. He’d shot Sam first, saved him first. Reese had gambled everything on it: if Dean had saved Reese first, Sam would have nowhere to jump to, much less sliding into his own body with the relief of fitting on a shoe or old piece of clothing. Reese had known that it would fall out that way, when he whispered inside Sam’s head. 

He’d think about what all that meant later. He put Dean in the back of the truck and ran back towards the Devil’s Trap to get Reese, taking the flashlight with him. 

The demon had settled a bit, deceitfully. It lay against the ground like a predator at the bottom of the sea, camouflaged against the dark earth. Anyone not looking for it wouldn’t see it there, and Sam cringed to think of the construction workers that would come back tomorrow, then cocked his head to listen. He couldn’t hear it inside of him anymore. Maybe because of the Trap… but he’d heard it at the sanctuary, too. 

His father’s body lay on the far side of the trap.

Yeah, that was far more likely. 

Reese sat at John’s side, his knees drawn up and his arms cradled against them, folded close. He looked up when Sam came over, a bit more alert. “Dean okay?” 

“Yeah. We gotta get him to a hospital. Mordac was in the camper with me.” Reese’s eyes snapped to full wakefulness. “I let him go just when the demon got here. He ran that way.” He pointed into the brush with the flashlight, then handed it over. 

Reese scrambled up, his left arm plastered to his side but reaching with the right. He took off at a jog, already calling. “Moooordaaac! Moooooooordac!” 

That left Sam, alone, standing beside his father’s body. He lay on his back, arms spread at equal angles from his hips; his eyes hung open a little, staring emptily. Sam hesitated, then forced himself to reach down and close them. The skin’s warmth was already fading. 

Sam crouched there for a moment, studying John’s face. He would feel this, later, like the cut of a sharp knife: you didn’t know you’d been wounded until you were already bleeding. At the time, though, he only hooked his forearms under John’s sides, levered him up to a leaning position, then slung him over his uninjured shoulder. 

Dean sat in the back of the truck, his cheek leaned against the seat; he saw Sam coming, saw the limp body of their father, and his face crumpled up in a way Sam had never seen before, awful press of emotion that he could barely contain. 

That made Sam feel it. 

By the time he got to the truck he had no breath left, was sucking in air in high gasps before expelling it again in barking sobs. “Need to,” he said to Dean. “Need to.” 

Dean was already sliding across the backseat, worming his left hand out of the sling. That brought a reprimand to Sam’s lips, but he bit it back; the last thing he wanted to do was bump John’s head or something like that. He bent his legs and twisted, gripping his father’s slack wrist to steady him as Dean caught the back of his shoulders with one hand. Together they lowered him onto the soft black leather of the back seat, pushing and pulling to settle him. 

Sam straightened finally and leaned against the truck’s door. On the edge of his vision, the demon lay inside its trap and Sam choked, wanting to tear it apart, to pick up a shotgun and just shoot and shoot blindly for hours into its black mass. 

They had nothing. No books, no rites. No Colt. They had it trapped here, cornered, and they couldn’t do a goddamned thing to it. His teeth ground together and Sam glowered at it. 

Behind him, Dean said, “We’ll get it, Sammy. We will.” 

A jagged dance of light on the other side of the truck preceded Reese’s arrival. His arms were empty and for a moment Sam’s stomach turned over; but then the front of his shirt moved and meowed, and he smiled through his thick tears. 

Reese stood in the open driver’s side door and looked in at Dean, at Sam, and then at their father. “Am I driving?” 

Sam shut the back door and climbed into the passenger side. There was blood on the seat, most likely Dean’s. “Yeah. I don’t think we can go south,” he added, looking out the window at the camper and the Impala’s twisted remains. He should go over and see if there was anything left in there that they could use; but Sam was quickly reaching the end of his physical and mental reserves, and he had no desire to go anywhere near their old car. Not now, with what had been done to it. 

He closed his eyes and rested against the seat. “North, Reese. Fast as you can.” 

-o- 

The staff of Spanish Peaks Hospital had a lot of experience with buckshot wounds and blunt-trauma, and didn’t even bat an eyelash at the makeshift self-ambulance. They swarmed all around the truck, opening doors and asking questions, shining lights in eyes. “Can you tell me what happened?” one of them asked Reese. 

“Uh, there were these guys.” What the hell could explain all this? “They came after us, almost killed us – I mean, they did kill us, our Dad – ” 

They stared at him, uncertain. Behind Reese, Sam spoke up. “We were hunting, with Dad. These guys drove us off the road, robbed us, shot at us. I think – I think they killed Dad.” 

The grief in his voice was real, and it bought them some silent assistance. Reese kept his mouth shut after that; even half-unconscious, Sam was a much better liar than him. When the rock salt in their wounds caused some confusion, Sam explained it with a shrug, looking puzzled. “I don’t know what they shot us with, ma’am. I was too scared.” 

They had to pry John from Dean's grip; Dean was barely conscious and they whisked him away for CT scans, MRIs, everything. Reese clung to Sam’s side, not caring that he sounded like a little kid when he outright refused to be led in a different direction. He did hand over Mordac, after being told firmly that cats – however well-behaved – were not allowed in sterile environments; a small, brown-skinned Filipino lady took him in her arms, soothing and cooing, swearing that she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. 

The dance of doctors and nurses and swabs went on for a while, a bit longer than Reese could stand. Too many people in the room and God, would he ever be over this? Their sterile-cool hands touched his skin and he shook worse than he had facing a goddamned demon. 

At his side, Sam piped up, “Hey. Are you guys almost done?” 

He talked them – big brown eyes so earnest – into abbreviating the usual procedures, giving them special accommodations near the head trauma wing, and even some hot drinks – coffee for Sam, chocolate for Reese. 

“Um,” he said, staring at the steaming cup that Sam had handed him. “Thanks.” His voice sounded foreign, a million miles away, not his own. Reese shivered and closed his eyes as he thought about how the demon would sound speaking out of his own mouth – it had been close, back there, and he’d stood alone inside the Trap with it crawling under his skin. 

Delayed reaction made him shake harder until Sam took the cup of hot liquid away, set it down on the side table, and rubbed a hand over the ball of Reese’s shoulder. The one he’d shot. ‘Maybe you should lie down, try to get some sleep,” he suggested gently. 

Reese laughed hoarsely. “I don’t think I could.” He felt exhausted, yeah, but too keyed up and jittery. Besides… “Have they – how’s Dean?” 

Sam’s smile became more genuine and less like a brave face that he put on for Reese’s benefit. “He’s okay. No brain swelling, which was the big concern. They’re checking out his ribs, looking for internal bleeding, but so far he’s pretty good. All things considered.” 

Which said a lot. “Yeah.” Reese lay back and Sam returned to his own bed a few feet away, hiked up to sit on it with a wince. They both had slings over their shoulders and Reese chuckled, pointing between them. “Mirror image.” 

“Guess so.” Sam studied him, his elbows balanced on his hips. “You got dad’s nose, though. And Dean’s colors. Freckled freaks.” 

“Shut up, beanstalk.” Reese swallowed. “Where’s, uh, Dad?” 

Sam looked at his coffee, staring into its depths like he was looking for tea leaves. “Downstairs. Mortuary.” 

“Oh.” He swallowed again, trying to keep down the awful swell of emotion. “We’ll have to bury him soon. His ghost – ” 

“Yeah. I know.” Reese had sketched him a bullet-point outline of their panicked, desperate pursuit down through the mountains; he’d skimmed over a lot, especially the part where John’s ghost had ordered both him and Dean to take Sam’s life. 

He looked over at his big brother, watched him scrub a hand across his beard-stubbled face. Watched the hunch of his shoulders, like he hurt a lot more than he was letting on. God knew that Reese did, too. 

“You’re not gonna take off again, are you?” he asked, his voice cracking. 

Sam dropped his hand, brows drawn together in concern. “Reese – ” 

“That thing – the Demon Trap or whatever it was, it won’t hold it for long, right? I know you know that. Don’t you try going anywhere. Dean’ll climb right out of the MRI machine.” And I need you. 

“Reese.” Sam sighed, weary, and set his coffee aside. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It might – I think it was because of Dad, you know?” He cleared his throat, lips twisting. “Used his ghost to find us, and his body to keep dragging me in. Christ.” 

“So you’re safe now, right?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just a theory, Reese. It might still be able to find me. Possess me.” 

The door to their room stood open; beyond, there came the soft voices and mechanical sounds of a hospital nightshift. It wasn’t a small hospital, either, lots of nurses and patients in it. Reese rolled onto his side to face Sam, knees drawn up and eyes closed; the bed’s cool sheets cradled his cheek. It was the first real bed he’d had in a while. “I get that. Just – don’t go anywhere, okay?” His voice caught in his throat again and he turned his face into the bed, suddenly sick with weariness. 

Sam’s bed creaked and then he stretched across the distance between them to slide his fingers into Reese’s hair. He ruffled it. “I won’t.” 

“Promise.” 

“Promise.” 

Reese went to sleep with the suddenness of a light switch turning off. 

-o- 

For the second time in a month, Dean woke up in a hospital bed, dry eyelashes tugging as he peeled them apart. This time, though, the two people that he needed to see at his bedside were both present and accounted for. 

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam greeted lightly. He had one shoulder in a sling; so did Reese. 

“You guys okay?” Dean rasped. 

“We’re great.” Sam’s lips quirked. “We both got our sodium content for the month. I’m storing mine behind the right shoulder blade.” 

Dean grimaced and jerked his chin at Reese. “Hit him for me, wouldya?” 

Reese looked between them. "He's bigger than you are." 

"Ha!" 

Dean scowled. "Traitor." 

"And I've got a kitten in my lap," Reese protested, indicating the sleepy Mordac. 

"Yeah, well," Dean said, trying to sound gruff, but then he got caught up in staring at his brothers. Bruised, a little rough around the edges, but alive. 

After a full ten seconds of silence that managed not to feel weird, Sam stirred. "Anyway. I hear your brain is fine; amazed they managed to find it." 

"Laugh it up, smartass. If we ever get attacked by brain-eating zombies, you're screwed." 

"Zombies don't eat brains, Dean," Sam explained patiently, patting his brother's wrist just above the IV line. "You might need one flambéed for ya, though. Sure couldn't hurt." 

That went on for a little while. Through the whole tennis match, Reese sat petting his kitten, and looking young and delighted. They had a lot of things to teach him. 

"You can join in," Sam told him gently, as if reading Dean's thoughts; that was a possibility. "It's kind of our own way of checking basic brain functions." 

Reese smiled, but looked uncertain. "I don't really have anything witty to say." 

"That'll make two of you," Dean said, poking at his IV line. "I hate taking these things out." 

"What – we're leaving? Now?" 

"We're wanted men, kiddo, can't exactly hang around. Sam, you gonna get off your ass and help me or what?" He hated to have to ask, but his head still felt fuzzy and his ribs bit with pain when he tried to move. 

"I gotta – "Sam stopped, then said quietly, "Reese, can you help him? I'll pull the truck around to the side entrance, meet you there." 

Dean looked up, saw Sam's face, and frowned. "Dude, I'm not that bad." 

Sam met his eyes. "It's not for you." 

And Dean's fragile good mood crumbled around him. 

At least Reese had learned when to keep his mouth shut: he put his shoulder underneath Dean's arm – kind of a better fit than Sam the Beanstalk. Sam took the damn cat and went out the front while Reese eased Dean down the back stairs one step at a time like an invalid. He felt sore all over, as if old wounds closed for years had decided to burst open. 

Outside, daylight made Dean's pupils constrict way too fast: he squinted against it and shivered in the cool mountain air. It was October, he realized suddenly, almost to the end of the month. Mom will have been dead for twenty-three years. 

He and Reese stood swaying together in the breeze, obvious to anyone who cared to glance out of the hospital's south windows. "You gonna go home to your brother 'n' sister?" Dean asked. He didn't know why. 

The kid looked at him sharply, and Dean pretended to scan for the truck. "I don't know. I don't think so." 

Their father's truck rounded the corner from the front parking lot, dust and worn tires and dents. Dean watched it coming and murmured, half to himself, "Maybe you should." 

They put him in the back and left him there a moment; Dean was alternately pissed and relieved about that. He didn't want to let either of his brothers out of his sight, but he could really use the precious few minutes of solitude before they got to the next bit. Most of that time – maybe five minutes in total – was spent lying flat on the backseat and staring up at the truck's roof. 

The soft black leather beneath him was pock-marked, scarred up by two rounds of salt shells. 

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the smells of this truck. Imagined his father, behind the wheel, tapping out a rhythm to "Mr. Bojangles" with his thumb. It was all there, against the backs of his eyelids: every tic and half-smile and word of John Winchester. 

He didn't sit up when they brought the cold, stiff body out, wrapped in sheets. They hefted him – not it, never it – into the back of the truck; John made a low thump when he connected with the truck's bed, and that sound, right there. That was the one Dean would remember. That was what he would carry. 

Sam came around to the front, climbed in the cab. When he shut the door, the air was too close, suddenly, to breathe. They sat there, breathing that closed-off air. 

Dean swallowed. "Where's Reese?" 

"He's back there," Sam answered softly. "With him. He wanted to." 

When they left the city of Walsenburg and the hospital behind, Dean gripped the top of the seat and sat up with a groan. Through the cab's rear window, he could see the whole truck's bed, with his father wrapped up in the white sterile hospital sheets like one of those corpses in Islamic countries. Reese sat beside John, his blond hair whipping in the wind. His mouth moved; he was talking to John, though his gaze rested on the hilly country of Eastern Colorado. 

Through glass and distance, Dean couldn't hear a word. He didn't need to; he didn't want to. He lay back down. 

-o- 

Sam found a clearing just over the border. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to do this inside Kansas; it just felt right. Like maybe John would be more at peace here, near the beginning. 

He also knew they weren’t going anywhere near their home state again, at least not for a while. 

The sun set behind them, stretched their long shadows ahead. Sam stuck to back roads that probably jarred Dean more than he needed; he didn’t particularly want to get pulled over for body-snatching, though. When he finally saw a grove of white-puffed cottonwood trees and the dry, crisp grass, he eased off onto a gravel path and drove into the trees. There was a can of gas in the back of the truck, but they'd still need kindling. 

His stomach turned over and Sam swallowed down the surge of bile. Dean hadn’t said a word in the two-hour trip and when Sam killed the engine the silence inside the cab felt instantly unbearable. He fumbled for the door handle and stepped out, the sunset too bright and the air too sharp. 

Reese clambered out of the back to stand beside him. “It’s pretty,” he said after a moment, his voice hoarse. He’d talked to Dad the whole way here. Sam wondered what he’d said to this father that he’d never known, would never know. He wondered what John’s ghost had had to say to Reese, back on the mountain. 

He wondered why John had never come to him. 

“Yeah.” It was a pretty spot, a copse in the flat plains filled with the drift of falling cotton and fluttering leaves. Sam stared up at the branches and said, “We need to – “ 

“Okay.” 

They only had two working arms between them, so it took them a couple hours to drag together enough branches and to douse them. Reese had no idea how to build a proper fire, and kept throwing big logs right on top, crushing all the kindling beneath; Sam gritted his teeth against frustrated outbursts, too tired and sore to keep himself from getting annoyed. Finally, he snapped. “Just – bring the fucking branches here, I’ll build it.” 

Reese flushed. “Fine. Suit yourself.” 

When they finally had enough for a proper funeral pyre, though, Sam’s anger snuffed out. “It’s gonna smell really bad,” he said, his voice breaking. He could remember the first time he’d smelled a body burning, the awful wrongness of the greasy smoke… 

God, Dad. 

Reese had to lead him back to the truck. Sam couldn’t see anymore through the fat tears that bubbled up and overflowed; he was beyond caring. He didn’t want to do this. He – fuck – he couldn’t do this, couldn’t drag out his father’s fucking body and throw it on a fire. Sam wanted to just get in the truck and drive, ghosts and demons be damned; he wanted to hide in a corner somewhere, or crawl in the back with Dean and huddle there until – until this was over and done. 

Reese was watching him, ashen in the failing light. Sam straightened a bit and wiped at his face. 

In the two hours they’d been here, Dean hadn’t done anything more than sit up. He leaned against the back seat, his legs dangling out of the truck. The hospital scrubs were an inch too short, and revealed a bit of hairy ankle at the bottom; it made him look oddly fragile. Mordac had curled in his lap, snuggled in but awake, his tail twitching periodically. 

Dean didn’t look over at Reese and Sam as they walked up; his gaze was fixed on a point out among the trees. “Look.” 

Sam’s heart clenched instantly, hard. He almost didn’t want to, but his head turned quickly of its own volition. Beside him, Reese’s shoulders moved under Sam’s arm as he sucked in a breath. 

If John had ever been powerful or strong, either in body or in spirit, he wasn’t any longer. He was a shape in the darkness, barely discernible among the trees; only the light skin of his face stood out, turned toward them. 

“How long’s he been out there?” Reese cried in a whisper, afraid. He was pressed against Sam’s side and Sam tightened his arm around his brother’s shoulders without thinking, or needing to think. 

“’Bout an hour,” Dean answered. “Off and on.” 

So why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Sam wanted to scream; but Dean’s expression was closed-off and blank. Sam had seen variations of that look too many times in his life… too many deaths, too many wounds. One of these days, Sam thought, Dean might close himself up and never open again, locks rusted over and destroyed. 

Dean must have felt him looking, because his eyes slid away and he lifted Mordac off his lap to the floor. “Lets do this, if we’re doin’ it. Can’t sit around all day.” 

Sam took his father’s shoulders; Reese and Dean took a leg apiece. They kept the hospital sheets tightly wrapped and doused them with gasoline. 

The face out in the woods watched them until Sam lit the fire with shaking fingers; then it disappeared entirely. 

-o- 

Apparently the kid had forgotten his fear of Sam, because he stayed plastered and needy at Sam’s elbow while the flames licked and consumed Dad’s body. He threw up once, sudden twist to the side and a shaky wipe of the mouth when the wind blew the smell in their direction. 

At least the kid didn’t cry. Sam did, big goopy tears that streaked his face and snot-filled sobs. Like a kid, too, and Dean ached with the desire to pick him up and carry him away from the fire, stop Sam from watching it eat away at the man who had given them life, raised them. 

Reese and Sam huddled together and Dean stood as far away as he could manage without being obvious about it. None of them spoke, not even after the fire had burned down to little flickers and a dull orange glow. The ashes would take some time to cool; they’d pick them up in the morning. 

"You should take the back," Sam finally said to him. It was the first words he'd spoken to Dean since this morning and Dean flinched to hear him, wanted to scream at Sam, tell him to shut up and get the fuck away. He didn't want anyone near him right then; he wanted to stand beside the dying light of his father and go out, too. 

Instead he turned and followed the sounds of his brothers' footfalls crunching in dry grass. And he climbed obediently into the back, because arguing with Sam right now felt like an impossibility. A war with no victor, only casualties. 

Dean closed his eyes against the moonlit night and carefully thought about nothing at all. 

He dreamed about John, though, behind the wheel of the Impala or standing beside a misty highway with his shoulders raised against the rain. John as he had been, at Dean’s six and Sam’s two, holding them each on one broad shoulder. There was no fire and no blood, but they were nightmares all the same: the Impala was heading towards a cliff, a semi lurked on the highway’s horizon. Sam and Dean were too heavy for their father’s heart, and he crumbled beneath them. 

Every happy memory turned to ash in his hands and Dean could never get his body to obey him: his voice faltered and his limbs failed. He rose and fell, clawing his way out of sleep only to sink back in exhaustion. 

Just before dawn, he woke up to screaming and quickly added his own to the mix. “Sam! Sam!” 

The other voice was Reese’s, though. His door opened and he lurched sideways out of the front seat, stumbling out to sit on the ground. 

In the dome light, Sam panted and stared across the seat. “I’m okay. I’m okay, Dean. The demon, it – got out. I jumped – I went into Reese to get away.” His eyes crumpled. “He was right there. I didn’t – fuck.” 

Dean gripped the top of the seat. “Does it – ” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t imagine running anywhere in the shape they were in. Wasn’t even sure, right then, that he wanted to run anymore, except here were his two little brothers. 

Sam’s breath shuddered and he leaned against the driver’s side door. “No. It – tried to get in me. But it hasn’t got Dad anymore, so it couldn’t.” The tension around his eyes eased a bit and he breathed out. 

Outside, sneakers scuffed in gravel; the relief dropped off Sam’s face. Dean twisted around, wincing as the movement pulled at damaged muscles. Reese sat on the ground outside, his head titled back to rest on the side of the truck. His breath was unsteady and loud under the buzz of cicadas, and Dean listened to him struggle with panic as deep and instinctive as Sam feared his own mind, and Dean feared for Sam. 

Dean gritted his teeth, a kick of delayed adrenaline making his heart race; he leaned his forehead against the top of the front seat and said, “Can everyone stop fucking around for five minutes? No possessions, nobody freaking out – is that too much to ask?” 

Neither of his brothers replied. After a minute, Dean lay back down, thinking about the demon, Dad, and some unknown person on the New Mexico and Colorado border who had just been eaten alive. 

Two months ago he would have started the truck up and turned them around; but Dean didn’t even remember who that guy was anymore… maybe he never had, or maybe it’d been lost somewhere between having Sam mucking around inside of him and burning Dad’s body. Right then, though, the air still smelled of smoke and Dean felt like his bones had been replace by toothpicks. 

He wasn’t who he’d been. He wasn’t Dean Winchester, with the car and the leather jacket and a world to tear down, not since that moment back on the road when Sam had slumped inside the Devil’s Trap, dropping to the ground. The memory was enough to make Dean shake; it had only last half a second, but it had blown through him and knocked things lose that Dean wasn’t sure he knew how to reorder. 

After a minute the front seat creaked as Sam slid across it to lean out the door. Dean listened to his low, gentle murmur and Reese’s quiet replies, and closed his eyes. 

-o- 

Sometime during the earliest hours of the morning, Reese asked, “What was he like?” 

Sam told him, slowly at first. They sat on opposite sides of the truck’s hood, their jackets pulled close around them; the nights were getting colder and longer now, though the Kansas day ahead of them could still burn the backs of their necks. 

The stories poured out of Sam in fits of memory tinted with his own grief and desperation to hold onto the good. Reese remembered the man who had visited him at the church, and the spirit that had come to them on the mountain; he knew that Sam was editing himself. He would ask again later, and get the bad stories, the ones tinted with anger and loss and arguments. For now, though, it was enough to hear half the story, and he was as starved to hear it as Sam was to tell it. 

John Winchester had had a crooked finger from the time that Sam had accidentally slammed his hand in the car door. He’d served in the Vietnam war as a sniper and was a crack shot, could shoot a target in high wind. He had rubbed Sam’s feet when he’d been thirteen and in the middle of his first growth spurt, big thumbs easing the arches and jokingly sniffing his toes in disgust. He’d cried once on a hunt, over the grave of a little girl who hadn’t hurt anyone yet – but he needed to be sure; so he’d burned her with tears in his eyes, then carefully wiped his face before coming back to the car where Sam and Dean had been pretending to sleep. 

The sun came up over the trees and Sam went to check on Dean a few times, leaning over the back seat. “Hey, Reese,” he called in a whisper. “C’mere.” 

Mordac had curled up on Dean’s stomach; Reese would worry about ribs, but the cat weighed about six pounds soaking wet. And Dean had a slack hand curled over the cat’s back, his wrist serving as a pillow for Mordac’s chin. There were shadows in Dean’s pale face and he twitched occasionally, but he was still sleeping deep, even with the sun falling partway across his face.


	26. And Then, Again

Two weeks later 

Reese ended up going back to his other family – for about five days. On the fifth day he called Sam and said shortly, "Come and get me." 

Sam hung up and sighed. He hadn't wanted Reese to be around for this part, not when his relationship with Dean was so tenuous and new. And Dean was not exactly fit for company at the moment… 

Then again, none of them were. Still sore, still healing, putting themselves back together. They'd spent a numb week that Sam barely remembered in an Iowan hotel, Reese and Sam sleeping all the night through and Dean sleeping in the day, until Sam had realized exactly how bad things were going to get and had convinced Reese to go home for a while. 

Bullet, dodged. Except not. 

Sam got packed up and waited until Dean came home smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. Dean looked at Sam's bag and his laced-up boots, then at him. "You takin' off?" he asked, eyes flat and a little glassy. 

"No. Reese called." 

Dean blinked and shrugged. 

They found Reese down the street from his aunt's house, as though he couldn't bear to even stand on the porch for another five minutes. He still had his torn duffel bag and the cat, but he'd cut his hair short and his clothes were clean; he looked, for a moment, like any other kid. 

He climbed in the back. "Hi. You replaced the seat." 

Dean had taken out the torn-up back seat and put in a new one. "Nice, huh?" Dean said, smiling into the rearview mirror with his sunglasses on and his arm stretched across the top of the front seat to rub Mordac's head. The cat purred and arched. "Gotta treat her good. So what, did they throw you out?" 

Reese flushed and looked away, shrugged. "Don't really wanna talk about it." 

"Fine, have it your way." 

They got a double room that night in the next town over, where Dean told Reese he could have the bed. "Not like I need it," he said, his lips tipping into a cocky, lewd smile. "I can find my own place to sleep any night of the week." 

After he left, Sam took Reese across the street to the diner and watched him trace designs in a bunch of sugar spilled on the tabletop. Only the night-shift waitress was around to pay them any attention; still, Reese looked tense, his eyes dancing around at the few other late patrons. "What happened?" 

Reese shrugged, so like Dean in his recalcitrance that for a moment Sam though, Oh, Christ, not two of them; but then his face softened and he said, "They kept sweeping up the salt that I put down. And they didn't – get it, you know? And I couldn't just tell them, so I – I couldn't stay there, Sam." 

Sam sighed and leaned his elbows on the table. "Yeah. I know." He had loved Stanford, and he'd loved Jess; but to be honest with himself, he'd always felt like an alien hiding his antennae. 

They sat for a while in silence, getting comfortable with each other again, or as comfortable as they could be – Sam didn't miss the way that Reese stayed carefully on his side of the booth. Sam had gotten a little better at controlling his astral projections, could even leave his body in the night and go out walking like an invisible dried leaf blown down the streets. 

It still scared the crap out of Reese, though… enough that he'd agreed to try going back home. He probably wouldn't admit that was the reason, but Sam knew better. And he couldn't blame Reese at all: Sam was stone-cold terrified. Ever since he'd left his body inside the Devil's Trap, he'd been bleeding out all over the place; little things at first, seeing things behind him and around corners. A few times, though, especially when he'd accidentally touched Reese or their poor waitress back in Houston, Sam had slipped. They'd departed Houston in a hurry, leaving behind one very frightened and confused waitress who would live forever with the echo of someone else inside her head. 

After that, Sam made an effort not to touch anyone. About the only person that he couldn't slip into was Dean; but given what he knew about his brother's emotional defenses, that didn't really surprise Sam. What frightened him was the sensation that his own body was a piece of clothing that, once opened, he couldn't quite zip closed; Sam imagined that someday he might come loose permanently, and wander around until he went crazy and became a violent spirit, too. 

Reese watched him, unfamiliar blue eyes in a familiar face. Like any other kid, someone that Sam might have been friends with at Stanford; except not. He'd faced demons, and no one walked away from that unscathed; when you look into the darkness, Sam thought, and wondered what kind of hunter Reese would turn out to be. He still remembered the road and the Devil's Trap, when Reese had said We're ahead in the points in a voice of ice. 

"What was he like?" Reese asked suddenly. 

It took Sam a moment to realize what he meant; then he sighed and sat back. "What do you want to hear?" 

-o- 

Things actually got easier after the kid came back. It gave Sam something else to obsess about, other than getting Dean to talk about Dad and how much they both missed him and how it was okay to miss him, or what the fuckever. (Also, the cat was back. Dean kind of liked the damn thing, it was always happy to see him and couldn't talk, two very big points in its favor.) 

At least having the kid around meant that Dean wouldn't have to feel bad about leaving Sam alone in the motel room. The kid still didn't know up from down in an exorcism or a lot of the other most important facts in life; but he'd whipped a shotgun like a pro. And anyway, they'd taken care of each other pretty well back at the Devil's Trap. 

Dean knew he wasn't any use to them right now. In fact, he had no intention of being useful to anyone in the foreseeable future. 

Even with the kid around, though, Sam still came at him in intervals irregular enough to keep Dean on his toes. He'd lay an ambush every other day, always with a tight mouth and something new that Dean had done wrong – Dean, you're drinking too much. Dean, Jesus, what happened to your face? Dean, you've got to talk to me. 

About what, Dean could never figure out. There wasn't that much to say: Dad was dead. Sam was grieving, weary and unhappy and lost. Dean was… well, he was trying like hell not to grieve, because he had a feeling there'd be no coming back from that. 

They hadn't done it before: they'd been too busy running for their goddamned lives. And it hadn't felt real, not with the demon walking around in John's body, or John himself hanging around like some kind of lost fucking soul, and wasn't that just Fate kicking them while they were down? Bitch. 

He went out every night he could without Sam kicking up a storm, and spent the other nights in the truck. They were lying low for a while, not hunting, not even looking for jobs: somewhere out there, the demon circled like an invisible shark, and until they had a game plan Dean had no intentions of going anywhere, no matter how much noise Sam made about "getting back in the game." He didn't like to imagine being packed into a car with Sam's concerned eyes up in his face. He needed room, dammit, he needed Sam to stay the fuck away from him, and communicated that exact thought loudly and vocally several times, even got them kicked out of a couple motels. 

The kid, thank Christ, kept his damn mouth shut and cut Dean a wide berth, at least for the first four days after he came back. On the fifth day he came out to the truck where Dean was fiddling with the tires. There wasn't anything to fix, but it gave Dean something to do that didn't involve people or his own thoughts. The kid came right out and stood a few feet away from Dean's shoulder; Dean gritted his teeth, anticipating a Trojan horse attack from Sam's camp. "Somethin' you want?" he growled, with as much hostility as possible. 

The little punk just shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd gotten his own goddamned clothes, at least, and wasn't stealing shirts from Dean anymore; unfortunately, his own clothes seemed to consist of those same weird print tees that Sam wore. Over those, he wore Dad's green corps jacket, and for the first time Dean noticed – or maybe it was finally clean enough to see – that the jacket had 'WINCHESTER' stenciled in, right above the left pocket. 

He didn't look half-starved anymore. Still a bit on the lanky side, lean, with a wrestler's square shoulders. And a harder look in his eyes than Dean remembered being there a week ago. "Was wondering if you'd take me out shooting again. Or some hand-to-hand, whatever." 

Dean frowned, distrustful. "Get Sam to show you." 

"I don't think he wants to." 

"Right. He put you up to this?" 

Reese closed his bad eye, and considered Dean. "I didn't ask him," he admitted finally. 

Dean didn't put it together until he remembered that day after they'd – when they'd gotten Dad's ashes. Sam had jumped into Reese, again, and the kid had been twitchy after that, putting bodily distance between them like a nervous prom date. Dean barked a laugh at the thought. "Christ, don't tell me you're still freaked out about the projection thing. After that whole fucking Borg-stunt you two pulled with the demon?" 

The hunch of the kid's shoulders confirmed it and Dean laughed again, sharp and sardonic; he stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I got news, kid, you're not much good to anybody if you're scared all the time." 

Reese glowered, blue eyes laser-sharp. "You gonna do it or what?" 

Dean tossed the wrench onto the front seat, shrugged. "Sure, if it'll shut you up." Hell, the kid had saved Sam's life; it was the least he could do. 

He still had nightmares about it, that moment when Sam-in-Reese had stepped inside the Devil's Trap with the demon, like boxers in the ring. 

-o- 

Dean was a man of his word, at least: he took Reese out into a local field, left barren by crop circulation plans. From the way Sam sighed when Reese told him, he still didn't like the idea; but he came along, too, even fired a few shotgun rounds. 

Standing between them, his own rifle leveled like a firing line with theirs, Reese felt something click over in his chest, some gear dropping into place and setting things in motion. He breathed through the excitement – probably not shooting straight at all – and tried to keep it from his face; it felt too fragile to share yet. It was right, though, and was such a staggering relief after that week at Aunt Sylvia's house that Reese felt kind of like crying. 

He kept that inside, too. It seemed like a Winchester thing to do, and when in Rome… he ducked his head, pretending to check his gauge while he swiped at his nose. 

The afternoon of shooting helped Dean a bit, too: when they trudged back through the wet grass to the truck, he had a satisfied gleam in his eyes. The first droplets of a rain shower wiped that away, though, and they sprinted the last stretch as the sky opened, their jackets held open over the guns. Sam stretched out his wide hands for Reese and Dean's weapons, laying them on the floor in the back, then clambering across the seat. 

Dean flung himself in behind the wheel. "Sam – fuck, be careful." 

"I am! Christ, Dean, I know how to handle – " 

"Not the guns, you idiot." Dean peered across the seat, then lunged. "Fuck, you're getting water on – Sam!" 

"Oh," Sam blurted. He scuffled in the back seat, then heaved up a plain brown paper bag, wiping frantically at the little drops of water dampening its sides. 

They all stared at the bag; rain drummed on the roof. Reese said, "You've still got him." 

"We kinda – " Sam looked at Dean and stopped. "Yeah." He set the bag down carefully on the dry seat, giving it plenty of space. 

The look on Dean's face threatened that buoyant feeling in Reese's chest; he took a chance and snatched up the dry jacket that Dean had left in the car. 

"Hey." Dean scowled, grabbed back. 

Reese whipped the jacket out of his reach. "I'm cold." 

"Then you shoulda brought your own, you little pansy. Gimme." 

"Guys – " 

"You shouldn't have dragged me out in the middle of a rain storm to trespass and shoot guns. You're a bad influence." Reese kept his voice light but his heart thumped, uncertain. He had no idea how far to push this, or how Dean would really react. Belatedly he realized just how similar this all was to that day back on the road to New Mexico, when Dean had tried to take his knife away and they'd almost killed each other. 

Reese opened his mouth, shaking, to take it back; but then Dean's eyes narrowed and he said, "All right, you little punk," and dove across the seat. Reese shrank away, panic surging – until Dean wormed an ice-cold hand underneath the collar of his shirt and pressed against his neck. Then he shrieked, loudly. 

Dean froze, his lips curling up and up at the ends into a delighted, evil smile. "Jesus Christ. Sam, we've got a little sister. Did you hear how high that was?" 

"Screw you!" About half of Reese's brain was freaking out about the feel of hands on his skin, the way Dean's knee dug into his right hip; he shoved it aside with an effort and retaliated, snaking his right hand into Dean's armpit. 

Though he adamantly denied it later, Dean's shriek definitely sounded a few notes higher. From the backseat, Sam stared at them with his mouth flapping. 

*****

 

Two months later

Reese's first hunt went off without a hitch, a straight salt-and-burn that Sam had reluctantly and painstakingly selected. Which meant that they didn't have to dig too far for the body, and everyone walked away under his own volition. Dean had a gash above his eyebrow from when the ghost had shattered the front window, but he might as well have been on the moon, walking with one arm draped over Reese's shoulders. "All right. Not bad. Still room for improvement, but definitely a start. Welcome to the family, kid."

Reese laughed, loud and relieved, his breath leaving clouds around his mouth. The graveyard had a thick cover of snow, and they slogged through it back to the truck, where Mordac had left nose-smudges on the windows.

Things only quieted down when they drove back through the suburbs and saw the long strings of lights, the garlands hung on every lamppost. Dean drove slow – because of the ice, he would insist if asked, but Sam knew better.

He also knew better than to challenge it aloud. Secrets, Sam could keep in; emotional responses, he'd never been good at withholding or allowing others to withhold. It felt like he'd gotten a crash course over the past month, though, as he struggled to balance Dean against Reese; trying to anticipate how two such different people would react to any given situation was more draining than even his occasional visions, but Sam had gotten better at it.

Craning his neck a bit, Sam checked the back seat, and yeah, Reese was staring out the window, absently petting Mordac as he did so. He'd tried to do something for Thanksgiving, had surprised Sam and Dean by slipping out to buy a pre-cooked turkey (and a can of special turkey-flavored Fancy Feast for Mordac). Dean had bolted straightaway, only pausing long enough to snarl about the wasted money.

Sam had ended up eating Dean's share and laughing at old Mystery Science Theater 3000 seasons (which turned out to be Reese's prized possession – he could quote entire episodes by heart); but he hadn't missed the surprise and hurt in Reese's face when Dean had shut the door behind him.

This night, three days before Christmas, Sam waited until the adrenaline faded and Reese fell into the sleep of the righteous (and righteously drunk) before cornering Dean by the vending machines. It was a monumentally stupid idea: Dean had split a bottle of whiskey with his (underaged) brother, and still had enough of his own post-hunt jitters to make him nice and combative. "Fuck you, Sam. With a stick."

Sam stood his ground. "He looks up to you. To both of us, but especially to you."

Dean flushed from more than just the cold or the alcohol, too startled (or inebriated) to hide his pleasure. "Kid's got good taste."

It took a few moments for Dean to meet his eyes, but when he did, Sam said firmly, "Yeah, he does. And you need to stop jerking him around with it."

"Aw, Christ." Abandoning the vending machine display, Dean shouldered past Sam roughly. "Don't fuckin' start with this again, Sammy. He wants to hunt. Stop tryin' to coddle him, Mother Hen."

"That's not what I'm talking – Dean. He's not just some kid that you're training to hunt, he's our brother."

"No shit, I hadn't noticed!" Dean stopped and flung his hands up into the air; it was starting to snow and white particles clung to the tips of Dean's hair. "My God, it all makes sense now!"

Sam laughed a little, bitter and exasperated. "You know it, but you don't know it yet."

"Thanks, Obi-Wan. Christ, what the fuck more do you want from me? I trained the kid, didn't I, I taught him how to shoot and – "

"That's just my fucking point, Dean!" Sam cast his arms wide, then caught himself and lowered his voice, glancing at the door of their room. "He's not just – a soldier, or something. He's knocked himself out for you, bent over backwards doing whatever sadistic training you put him through, but not just because he wants to hunt. He wants you to like him, and most of the time you act like his goddamned drill sergeant! Christ," he added, realization dawning, "you're turning into D – "

Dean's whole body changed, a lightning-fast transition from drunk to tight and furious. His voice dropped low, but Sam still heard it just fine. "Don't fucking finish that sentence."

They faced off, only inches apart, the air between them misted with their breath. Colder than the wind on their faces, Dean's eyes bored into Sam's; Sam knew he shouldn't push it, but it had been two goddamned months of this and something had to give. "You know what that feels like," he told Dean softly. "You know. Don't do it to him."

Dean flinched, still angry but losing hold of his vehemence. "Fuck you, Sam," he snarled, no strength behind the words.

He strode off across the parking lot, wobbling a little on the ice as he went.

Left behind in the snow-muffled world, Sam sighed and rubbed a hand through his cold, wet hair. "That went well," he muttered, upset with himself and afraid for Dean.

-o-

On the kid's third hunt, Dean almost got him killed. Or, he almost got himself killed and the kid almost died saving his worthless ass.

Sam, thank Christ, stayed more sane than either of his brothers: he drove the long (way too fucking long) stretch to the hospital, calmly talking Dean through basic fucking first aid that he'd known for twenty fucking years but couldn't quite summon up when Reese's blue eyes, wide and scared, were fixed on him.

A million times in his life, he'd done this: patched up Dad or Sam when they'd had wounds a lot worse than the gouges in the kid's side. This felt different, though; Dean felt responsible. Which should have been nothing new, he'd practically raised Sam and it was his fucking job, after all… take care of Sam, make sure nothing hurts him. And Dad, follow Dad, make sure nothing hurts him.

Dean had trained Reese, personally. Put his first gun in his hands, shown him how to use it.

Oh, yeah. This felt different.

The kid didn't complain, which was almost worse than if he'd been screaming and crying. He stayed quiet all the way to the hospital, only making a noise of protest when the nurses held Sam and Dean back at the door.

Dean stood outside of the emergency room and shook. "Don't say it," he spat at the silent form beside him. "Don't you fucking say it."

"You're not Dad," Sam told him tersely. "Stop pretending you are, before you get one of you killed."

They had it out, then, screaming at each other in the hospital bay and then taking it outside when the nurses called security. It was a long time coming, with Sam pushing like he always did and Dean just trying to lock down before he spilled his guts all over the place.

Neither one of them won out in the end: halfway into a bellowed sentence, Sam's face and voice abruptly broke open and he said, "You're trying to die, aren't you, you dumb fuck, we need you, I need you, don't you, don't you – "

Dean grabbed him and dragged him bodily over to a sitting bench outside the hospital doors. His knees gave out in the last few steps and the bench creaked alarmingly as he and Sam crashed down onto it.

And into each other. Dean had stayed behind his own barriers for so long, cruising at night and keeping his distance in the day, that he'd forgotten how badly Sam's boundaries had been screwed up. In a flash, he remembered, and understood why Reese always angled his body away from Sam, even while they laughed together in the truck – and Dean could never help the little flash of jealousy he felt, watching them – or just talked. Always talking, the two of them, an endless thrum against Dean's ears that made him grit his teeth and turn the music up.

The memory shifted out from under him, changing inside his own mind until Dean saw himself from the outside, scowling and hostile. Saw Reese, too, still cautious and a bit feral, but so full of wide-eyed wonder at the two of them. Christ, there was so much in the world that could hurt him yet, and so much that already had.

Dean swallowed against the rush of emotion that was only partly his own. Yeah, he knew that feeling pretty well; he'd watched Sam for years with the same thought throbbing through his brain, but what fucking good had that done anyone? When the shit had hit the fan, Dean had been utterly fucking useless, got himself knocked silly and then left behind –

He wrenched away from Sam with an effort that left him shaking. Sam sat on the bench, his eyes wide. "Left behind? What does that mean?"

"Shut up, Sam." It bubbled up, though, kept in too long. "You fucking idiots – that was the stupidest fucking plan in the world. I mean – you got in with it, for Christ's sake." He staggered up, wanting to pace but only managing to sway.

"The Devil's Trap?" Sam sat forward, eyes sharpening. Fuck, he smelled blood.

"Yes, the fucking Devil's Trap! You two – Dad was fucking gone, okay, and then you two stepped right the fuck in there with it, you retards." He was shaking hard enough that he had to sit back down again, though on the other side of the bench from Sam. They must have still been a little connected, because when he did so he got a sudden, sharp surge of deep loneliness.

It took him a moment to separate that his own feelings of isolation from Sam's. The same emotion, from opposite places.

After a moment Sam said quietly, "I'm sorry." Then, just as quiet, "That doesn't give you the right to try to leave us. If Reese hadn't run in there, I would've."

Dean pulled a face, wanting to protest but knowing better. He got up again but didn't move very far away, close enough that he could still feel Sam like a vibration against his skin. "So how many d'ya think," he said at last, "twenty-five?"

Sam craned his neck back and regarded Dean with narrowed eyes. Not off the hook, then, but he still said, "I'd say more like twenty."

Reese ended up with seventeen stitches. Either Sam or Dean could have patched him up (as they did in the future), but they'd needed the moment to patch up each other.

They only really communicated when pushed to extremes, and then always in the most unlikely ways they could find.

-o-

Mordac got worms in Provo. Sam freaked out when he found a little scab on the cat's belly, but Reese managed to talk him down from a full-blown panic attack. "Cats get them a lot. Just gotta get him some meds. Y'know, Tim had them once."

Sam blinked. "Your brother got worms?"

"Yup. Ate sand all the time, everywhere he could. He was a special, special boy," Reese added, laughing as he looked up vets in the area. "Gina just about strangled him."

Sam gave him the same sidelong look that he always did when Reese talked about his other siblings. It didn't really bother Reese that much, but he wondered whether Sam would ever accept that Reese had chosen this life, that he wanted to be here in a cheap motel room with seventeen stitches in his side and an unhappy cat stretched out in his lap.

Probably not. For all his intelligence, Sam had a tough time understanding that Reese could make a solid, well-informed decision that, while right for himself, was opposite to what Sam would have chosen.

They bought an air mattress for Dean, who deigned to occasionally grace them with his presence; still cautious, like a wild animal that needed coaxing. Reese liked to think that he saw Dean a little clearer now, but on good days, usually after Dean had pulled some fucking amazing move in the middle of a hunt, Reese couldn't help feeling like he had his own personal superhero.

Most nights it was just him and Sam, though, stretched out on their opposite beds.

"Do you remember your mom at all?" Reese asked during a lull in The Day the Earth Froze. The episode wasn't one of MST3K's best, mainly because the movie was so unbelievably bad; after this one, though, there was Bride of the Monster, and then – then there was Manos. Reese squirmed a little in happy anticipation, then refocused. "I mean – I know you were a baby, but did Dad or Dean tell you much about her?"

Sam shook his head, his eyebrows pulled together at the TV screen. "No. When I was little Dad showed me a couple pictures, but I don't know where those are now. And Dean used to tell me lots of stories – I don't think he really liked to tell them, though. God, this is so bad."

"I know, just wait two episodes, though, then you'll know true pain. Dean was like, four, right? How much did he remember?"

They'd bought nachos and Sam picked through his for a moment. Reese had yet to conquer his unease in public spaces, so they got takeout, or at least ordered to go. "I think he made things up, sometimes," Sam answered, quiet with memory. "Not a lot, just… to make me feel better. And him, too. They were good stories, about how she'd sing to us and sleep beside our beds when either one of us was sick – I liked believing they were true, anyway." He rubbed the back of his skull against the headboard, then asked carefully, "What was your mom like?"

Reese chewed on hot cheese, thinking; he swallowed and said, "Beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. Movie-star level. Guys, they'd see her on the street and go nuts; she always managed to find the shittiest ones to date though, a lot of 'em. And I don't think she really wanted to have kids – I don't think any of us were planned, y'know?" He shrugged, watching the episode wind down. "She did her best, though. I know she loved all of us more than anything in the world."

The corners of Sam's mouth drew up, tentative little smile. "Sounds like a good mom."

"Yeah. Yeah."

 

***** 

Two years later

Sam actually got to meet Reese's mom once, or at least a shade of her. They were hunting in Michigan; he came up over a hillside and found Dean backed up against a tree, his gun straight out in front of him and his teeth bared. A few feet away, John Winchester had his own hands raised, palms up in supplication.

John saw him and his skin shifted, pulling in a terrible, sickening way, sprouting hair and smoothing into a feminine shape. "Sam," Jess gasped, her eyes wide and trembling. "Sam, it's me."

Sam hesitated; he couldn't not. It had Jessica down pat, not a detail wrong in the way she looked, moved, or the way she made Sam feel.

Boots pounded the Earth behind him as Reese, who both Dean and Sam had told to wait in the truck, ran up. Instantly, the thing stretched again, hair lightening a few shades and growing all the way to her waist and Sam's jaw dropped.

Reese hadn't exaggerated: Kellie Miller was the single most beautiful woman that Sam had ever laid eyes on. Long, pale blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes impressively ringed with black lashes, all curve and full lips, slender white hands.

"Reese!" she cried, reaching out. "Reese!"

Reese drew up, planted a foot, and put five bullets in her without hesitation. The fairy made a sharp, surprised noise, then dropped to the ground like a stone, its beautiful glamour fading to reveal a small, shriveled thing.

Later, he would cry about it, curled up in the back seat with Mordac (by now successfully de-wormed) folded up tight in his arms. Dean would surprise Sam by letting him drive, then shock him by climbing straight over the seat and sitting with his arm around Reese's shoulders for two hours. Reese would reach back, tucking his head into the side of Dean's neck.

Right then, though, right after he shot the hell out of his mother's form, Reese looked contained. Calm. Even cold.

That's the kind of hunter he was.

That moment in the back maybe shouldn't have surprised Sam: once he got past his phobia of physical contact, Reese was a startlingly tactile person. Or, as Dean put it, "the touchy-feeliest little weirdo on the planet."

It takes one to know one, Sam thought to himself, but said nothing aloud: he was far too busy being amused by the constant Dean-and-Reese show. After Sam had finally told Dean to lug his own goddamned air mattress in every night, Dean had, in apparent protest, started sharing a bed with Reese. Which led to much prodding and elbowing and slurred voices in the middle of the night – "Dude, get your armpit outta my face." "Get your face out of my armpit" – but neither of them ever seemed irritated enough to walk the short distance from the room to the parking lot in order to get the air mattress, which was really rather light (Sam had only stopped carrying it in out of principle).

It didn't stop there, though. They got into poking fights while waiting in line for food, slung arms around each other's shoulders when heading out for the bar, and threw punches about twice a month. That last part of their language, Sam understood; it was his only glimpse at the deep, weird way that Dean and Reese communicated. Even before whatever door had opened up inside his head, he'd been what Jessica had called a standoffish person.

It stopped surprising him after a while. So when they had another brush with one of the demon's children, Sam wasn't at all startled to open his eyes to the sight of Dean and Reese sitting at his bedside in the same position as that day after the shapeshifter: Dean with his arm wrapped tight around Reese's shoulders and Reese with his head tucked into Dean's neck.

They had found their own way of talking to each other, different from the words and memories that Sam and Reese exchanged. Different, too, from the once-in-a-blue moon times that Sam would slide into Dean's head, or Dean would drag him in, and they would know each other in full.

Not better or worse, just different.

-o-

The cat, Dean discovered, was way more intelligent than he felt comfortable about.

This revelation came to him one night after a wendigo hunt: after throwing off Reese's octopus-arms and staggering into the bathroom , he found the toilet already occupied. Mordac perched on the rim, his ass hanging into the bowl, and glared up at Dean with an unmistakable expression that said, Do you mind, motherfucker?

Shaken, Dean went back out into the bedroom and knelt on the mattress beside Reese to poke his little brother awake. "Reese."

"Mm. Mmph."

"Reese, the cat's shitting in the toilet."

Reese opened his eyes briefly then closed them again. "He is? Oh, good."

Dean scowled and poked him harder, eliciting a sleepy noise of displeasure and a swat. "He's shitting in the toilet. The cat."

"I know," Reese said blurrily to the pillow. "We taught him to do that."

"You taught the cat to use the toilet?"

"Mm. Yeah. Me 'n' Sam."

Still unsure what to think, Dean scooted back until he had put his back against the headboard, and sat there struggling to ignore his full bladder. He wasn't sure how he would react if the toilet flushed. Possibly start screaming.

After another few minutes, the cat sauntered out of the bathroom, his tail held high either in pride or embarrassed dignity. He stood by the doorway eyeing Dean; Dean stared back and didn't move until Mordac had hopped into bed with Sam, scaling the mountain of Sam's hip and crossing the rumpled desert of his chest to curl happily up on his neck.

When he was completely settled, Dean got up and went into the bathroom. Sure enough, he had to flush the toilet before using it.

The next day he steered them to a local mall in search of a cat post. There was no telling what a cat could get up to, apparently, and Dean didn't want to take any chances of this thing getting pissy and offing them in their sleep.

"Shut up," he muttered at Sam as he hoisted the boxed cat post over a shoulder.

"Didn't say anything," Sam said, and he hadn't; he wasn't even paying attention, too focused on something in the next shop over. "Hey, I need the charge card."

"What, you find a new prom dress?" Dean followed Sam's gaze, and fell silent.

Reese stood outside a guitar shop, face and body twisted up.

He didn't take it willingly – wouldn't set foot inside the store, wouldn't touch the guitar that Sam brought back with him (he'd bought the one in the display window that had caught Reese's eye). When Sam asked about it, he finally discovered the one thing that Reese simply would not talk about, no matter how many angles he came at it from.

-o-

Silver was good for werewolves and all other shapeshifters. Salt could keep anything wrong away. If he met a witch, he shouldn't jump to conclusions until she pulled out the shrunken head collection; then he needed to shoot her straightaway, any kind of bullet would do. Dean gave him a silver ring for protection; Sam gave him an amulet in the shape of Orion, the hunter of the sky who Odysseus met in Hades. He told them the whole myth until Dean rolled his eyes and attempted to smother himself with a pillow.

He still couldn't pronounce Latin very well, at least not anything more complicated than Deus. The rolling rise and fall of exorcism rituals evaded his grasp: he tried, and failed, and tried again, and threw a book against the wall in frustration. Dean gave him hell about that, chewed his ass for days until they had it out in a parking lot, punching each other silly. Sam waded in and put them both on the ground.

The bum left eye kept things interesting on hunts, when darkness and adrenaline already made it damned hard to see. Sam stayed on his left side whenever he could, a fixed point of stability; Reese didn't need to see him to know that Sam was there, and some days he felt like getting down on his knees and giving prayers of thanks for that.

"Well," Dean said over breakfast one morning, "at least no one thinks we're gay anymore."

Sam choked on his eggs and it took a bit of coughing and pounding before Reese could even ask. Then he laughed at them for about three hours, and almost forgot to wonder what Dean had meant by that.

They were hurtling down the highway, bruises on their back from some kind of stone monster, windows rolled down and the air of autumn rolling in over them when Dean craned his neck back and shouted over the wind and the engine's roar, "You look like both of us. More than we look like each other. People can tell we're brothers, because of you."

Dean never said much that he couldn't say with his body – hugs and a shoulder thumping against Reese's and punches thrown. He only got verbal when he was pissed, when his anger couldn't be properly expressed in a physical way without doing permanent damage to someone or something.

When he did say something at less than a shout, though, he made it count.

Reese sucked in a breath that hurt, and said, "Stop the truck."

He got the guitar out of the back, ignoring Dean's smug little smile and Sam's look of surprise. His hands shook as he held it, and he couldn't bring himself to even touch the strings for another hundred miles.

Then it came back slowly, fingers a little sore from getting slammed in a door by that poltergeist back in Jersey; the major chords, though, had long since tattooed themselves on his cerebral cortex, taking up all that damned limited space and refusing to budge, even for Latin.

He couldn't sing. Didn't even want to try, knew that part of himself had been lost forever. He could live to be an old, old man, and he'd never sing again.

But after a few days of listening to the uncertain little chords that got smoother and the rolling beat that grew steadier, Dean started singing for him. The first few word drifted out of the bathroom, where he was shaving. "I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you…"

Reese stopped short, ugly clap of his hand against the strings, his heart pounding. Dean stopped, too, then washed his razor off and brushed his teeth.

It happened again later in the truck, though, and Reese let it. Sam was driving, watching them both in the mirror and from the corner of his eye; always watching them, always holding himself at such a lonely distance. In the passenger seat, Dean had his arm slung out the window and his sunglasses on; when Reese strummed the first few chords with a purpose, Dean took up the beat right away, hitting the side of the truck with his open hand like it was something they had rehearsed. "I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you, in worn out shoes…"

The bag of ashes sat at Reese's feet. He bit his lip and nudged it with the knee that didn't have the guitar balanced on top.

"He jumped so high, he jumped so high, then he lightly touched down," Dean sang, getting into it now. It sounded like he knew the Jerry Jeff Walker version best, had probably been raised with it. Sam grinned at them both, wind whipping across his face. Dean grinned back before launching his voice into the chorus.

"Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles dance."

And then, again, there were three.


End file.
